THE 



POPITICAL WORKS 



OP 



WORDSWORTH 



WITH ME'f OIR, EXPLANATORY NOTES, ETC 



NEW YORK 

JOHN W LOVELL CO^IPANl 
150 WoKTH Stkeet, corner Mission Place 



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CONTENTS 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



FACE. 

Extract from the Conclusion of a Poem, 
composed in anticipation of leaving 

Scliooi 15 

Wnlteii in very early Youth 15 

All Evening Walk. Addressed to a Young 



Lady. 



Lines written while sailing in a Boat at 
Evening .... 21 

Remembrance of Collins, composed upon 
the Thames near Richmond 21 



PAGC 

Descriptive Sketches taken during a Pe- 
destrian Tour among the Alps .11 

Lines left upon a Seal in a Yew-tree, which 
stands near the Lake of Esthwaitc, on a 
desolate part of tiie Shore, commanding 
a beautiful Prospect 3 

Guilt and Sorrow ; or, Incidents upon Salis- 
bury Plain 3J 

The P.ORDEKEKs. A Tragedy 43 



POEMS REFERRING TO TIIE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 



My heart leaps up wlien I behold 79 

Til a r.utterfly 79 

The Sparrow's Nest - 79 

Foresight 79 

Ciiaractcristics of a Child three Years old . 80 
Address to a Child, during a Boisterous 

Winter Evening 80 

The Mother's Return 81 

Alice F'eil ; or, Poverty 81 

LucyClray; or, Solitude 82 

We are Seven 83 

The Idle Shepherd-bovs ; or Dungeon- 

Ghyll Force. A Pastoral 83 

Anecdote for Fathers 84 



Rural Architecture 

The Pct-Lanib. A Pastoral 

To H - C. Six Years old 

Influence of Natural Objects in calling forth 
and strengthening ttie imagination in Boy- 
hood and early Youth 

The Longest Day. Adressed to my Daugh- 



The Norman Boy 8g 

The Poet's Dream. Sequel to the Norman 

Boy f;o 

The Westmoreland Girl- 
Part 1 9« 

Part II 93 



83 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



The Brothers 93 

Artegal and Elidure 98 

To a Butterfly 10 1 

A Farewell 102 

Stanzas written in my Pocket-copy of 

Thomson's Castle of Indolence 103 

Louisa. After accompanying her on a 

Mountain Excursion 104 

Strage fits of passion have I known 104 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 104 

I travelled among unknown men 104 

Ere with cold beads of midnight dew 104 

To — , 105 

Tbe Forsaken 105 

'Tis said, that some have died lor Ipve 105 



A Complaint • • '•* 

To — «o6 

Yes ! thou art fair, yet be not moved 06 

How rich that forehead's calm expanse 106 

What heavenly smiles! O Lady mme 107 

fo— 07 

Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, on the 

Eve of a New Year 107 

The Complaint of a Forsaken Indian wo- 
man '08 

The Last of the Flock log 

Repentanee. A Pastoral Ballad no 

The affliction of Margaret— m 

The Cottager tf) her Infant « '» 

Maternal Grief IW 



CONTENTS. 



I'Ar.M. 

The Sailor's Mother 113 

The Childless Father 113 

The Emigrant Mother 114 

Viudracour and Julia 115 

The Idiot Boy 119 

Michael. A Pastoral Poem 123 

The Widow on Windermere Side 129 



PAG8. 

The Armenian Lady's Love 130 

Loving and Liking. Irregular Verses ad- 
dressed to a Child 132 

Farewell Lines 133 

The Redbreast. Suggested in a Westmore- 
land Cottage 133 

Her Eyes are Wild 134 



POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 

It was an April morning : fresh and clear.. 136 I To M. H 138 

To Joanna 136 i When, to the attractions of the busy world 139 

There is an Eminence, — of these our hills. 137 , Forth from a jutting ridge, around whose 

A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags. 1381 base 140 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



A Morning Exercise 

A Flower Garden, at Coleorton Hall, Lei- 
cestershire 

A whirl-blast from behind the hill 

The Waterfall and the Eglantine 

The Oak and the Broom. A Pastoral 

To a .Sexton , 

To the Daisy 

To the .same Flower 

The Green Linnet 

To a Sky-lark 

To the Small Celandine 

To the same Flower 

The Seven Sisters ; or, the Solitude of Bm- 
norie 

Who fancied what a pretty sight • 

The Redbreast chasing the Butterfly. 

Song for the Spinning Wheel. Founded 
upon a Belief prevalent among the Pas- 
toral Vales of Westmoreland . 

Hint from the Mountains for certain Politi- 
cal Pretenders 

On seeing a Needlecase in the Form of a 
H arp 

To a Lady, in answer to a request that 1 



I would write her a Poem upon some Draw- 
ings that she had made 01 Flowers in the 

Lsland of Madeira 151 

Glad sight wherever new with old 151 

The Contrast. The Parrot and the Wren. 151 

The Danish Boy. A Fragment 152 

Song for the Wandering Jew ^53 

Stray Pleasures T53 

The Pilgrim's Dream ; or, the Star and the 

Glow-worm 153 

The Poet and the Caged Turtledove 154 

A Wren's Nest 155 

Love lies Bleeding 155 

Companion to the foregoing 156 

Rural Illusions 156 

The Kitten and Falling Leaves 157 

Address to my Infant Daughter, on being 
reminded that she was a Month old, on 

t^iat day 158 

THE WAGONER 

Canto 1 159 

Canto II 192 

Canto III 164 

I Canto IV 165 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Tliere was a Boy . . 
To the Cuckoo. . . 

A Night-piece 

Aircy-force Valley. 
Yew-trees 



168 

168 

169 

169 

169 

Nutting 170 

The Simplon Pass 1 70 

She was a Phantom of delight 171 

Nightingale ! thou surely art 171 

Three years she grew in sun and shower... 171 

A slumber did my spirit seal 172 

1 wandered lonely as a cloud 1 72 

The Reverie of Poor Susan 172 

Power of Music •••• 172 



Star-gazers 173 

Written in March, while resting on the 

Bridge at the foot of Brother's Water. . . 174 
Lyre ! though such power do in thy magic 

live 1 74 

Beggars 174 

Sequel to the foregoing, composed many 

Years after 1 75 

Gypsies 175 

Ruth 176 

Resolution and Independence 178 

The Thorn 180 

Hart-leap Well i8« 

Part 1 183 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

Part II iS4 

Song at the P'cast of Brougliam Castle, 
upon the Restoration of Lord Cliffoid, 
the Shepherd, to the Estates and Hon- 
ors of his Ancestors 1 86 

Lines, composed a few miles above Tmtern 
Abbey, on revisiting the Banks of the 

WAc, during a Tour, July 13, 1798 1S7 

1 1 IS no Sjiiit who from heaven hath flown. 189 
t'lcnch Revolution, as it appeared to En- 
thusiasts at its Commencement. Re- 
printed from " The Friend " 190 

Y's, it was the Mountain Echo 190 

I () a Sky-lark 190 

Laodamia igi 

Dion 193 

The Pass of Kirkstone 195 

To Enterprise 196 

To — , on her I-'irst Ascent to the Summit of 

Helvellyn 197 

To a Young Lady, who had been reproach- 
ed for taking long walks m the Country.. 198 



PA OR. 

Water fowl 198 

View from the top of Black Comb 198 

Tiie Haunted Tree- To — 199 

The Triad i<^ 

The Wisliing-gate 202 

The Wishing-gate destroyed 202 

The Primrose of the Rock 203 

Presentiments 204 

Vernal Ode 205 

Devotional I ncitements 2r/) 

The Cuckoo-Clock 217 

To the Clouds 208 

Suggested by a Picture of the Bird of Para- 
dise. 20q 

A Jewish Family 2(i.j 

On the Power of Sound 2 iq 

PETER BELL. -A Tale- 

Prologue ■2.\\ 

Part 1 216 

Part II 2;^o 

Part III 22a 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
PART I. 



Dedication. To — 226 

N- IS fret not at tlieir Convent's narrow- 
room 226 

Admonition 226 

"Beloved Vale!" I said, "when I shall 

con" 226 

At Applethwaite, near Keswick 227 

Pehon and Ossa fiourish side by side 227 

There is a little unpretending Rill 227 

Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat.. . . 227 
The fairest. Brightest, hues of ether fad. ..227 

Upon the sight of a Beautiful Picture 228 

•' Why, Minstrel, these unluneful murmur 



mgs 



228 



Aerial Rock — whose solitary brow 228 

To Sleep 228 

To Sleep 228 

To Sleep 229 

Tlie Wild Duck's Nest 229 

Written upon a Blank Leaf in "The Com- 
plete Angler 229 

To the Poet, John Dyer 229 

On the Detraction which followed the pub- 
lication of a certain Poem 230 



Grief, thou hast lost an ever ready friend... 

ToS. H 

Composed in one of the Valleys of West- 
moreland, on Easter Sunday 

Decay of Piety ' 

Composed on the eve of the Marriage of a 
Friend in the Vale cf Grasm.cre, 1812 

From the Italian of Michael Angelo 

From the Same 

From the Same. To the Supreme Being. 

Surprised by joy — impatient as the wind.. 

Methought I saw the footsteps of a Throne 

Even so for me a Vision sanctified 

It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free.. 

Where lies the Land to which yon Ship 
must go ? 

With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and 
nigh 

The world is too much with us ; late and 
soon 

A volant Tribe of Bards on earth are found 

•' Weak is the will of Man, his judgment 
blind." 

To the Memory Raisley Calvert 



PART II 



Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have 
frowned : 233 

How sweet it is, when mother Fancy 
rocks 234 

Tc B. R. Haydon 234 

From the dark chambers of detection freed. 234 



1 watch, and long have watched, with calm 

regret 234 

I heard (alas ! 'twas only in a dream). . ... 235 

Retirement 235 

Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous 
s^'ell 235 



Fair Prime of life ! were it enough to gild. 234 I Mark the concentrated hazels that enclose, jjj 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 
Composed after a Journey across the Hain- 

bletoti Hills, Ytjrkshirc 235 

Those words were uttered as in pensive 

mood 236 

VVliile not a leaf seems faded, wliilc the 

fields 236 

How clear, how keen, how marvellously 

bright 236 

Composed during a Storni 236 

To a Snow-drop 236 

Tf) the Lady Mary Lowther 237 

To Lady Beaiunont 237 

TluMt" is a pleasure in poetic paiiis 237 

The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said 237 
Wlii-n haughty expectations prostrate lie.. 237 
Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful 

l"'>ir 238 

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st 

the sky ! 238 



Pagb. 

Even as a dragon 's eye that feels the stress 238 
The stars are mansions built by Nature's 

hand 238 

Desponding Father! mark this altered 

bough 238 

Captivity. — Mary Queen of Scots 239 

St. Catherine of Ledbury 23.) 

Though narrow be that old Man's cares and 

n<^ar.... 23-, 

Four fiery steeds impatient of the rein 239' 

Brook ! whose society the Poet seeks 239 

Composed on the Banks of a Rocky Stream 240 

Pure element of waters ! wheresoe'er 240 

Malham Cove 240 

Gordale 240 

Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 

3, 1S02 241 

Conclusion. To 241 



PART III. 



Though the bold wings of Poesy affect. . , . 
Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming youth ! . . 
Shame on this faithless heart ! that could 

allow 

Recoilecfion of tiie Portrait of King Henry 

F^ighth, Trinity Lodge, Cambridge 

On the Death of His Majesty (George 

the Third)...., 

Fame tells of groves — from England far 

away— 

A Parsonage in Oxfordshire 

Composed among the Ruins of a Castle in 

North Wales 

To the I,ady E. B. and the Hon. Miss P., 
To the Torrent at the I)evirs Bridge, 

North Wales, 1S24 '. . 

In the Woods of Rydal 

When Philoctetes in the Lemnian isle 

While Anna's peers and early playmates 

tread 

To the Cuckoo 

To 

The Infant M M 

To , in her seventieth year 

To Rotha O 



A Grave-stone upon the Floor in the Clois- 
ters of Worcester Cathedral 

Romiii Antiquities discovered at Bishop- 
stone, Herefordshire 

Chatsworth! thy stately mansion, and the 
jnidc 

A TraHitioii of Oker Hill in Darley Dale, 
I )erbvsliire 

Filial Piety 

To the Author's Portrait 

Why art thou silent ! Is thy love a jilant. . 

To B. R. Haydon, on seeing his Picture of 



Napoleon Bonaparte on the Island of St. 

Helena 247 

A Port ! — He hatli put iiis heart to school 247 
The most alluring clouds that mount the 

sl«y ; 247 

On a Portrait of the Duke of Wellington 

upon the field of Waterloo, by Haydon.. 247 

Composed on a May Morning, 1S38 247 

Lo! where she stands fixed in a saint-like 

trance 248 

To a Painter 248 

On the same Subject 248 

Hark! 'tis the Thrush, undaunted, unde- 

prest 248 

"Tis He whose yester-evening's high dis- 
dain 24S 

Oil what a Wreck ! how changed in mien 

and speech 249 

Intent on gathering wool from hedge and 

brake 249 

A Plea for Authors, May, 1838 249 

Valedictory Sonnet • 249 

To the Rev. Christopher Wordsworth, 

D.D., Master of Harrow School 250 

To the Planet Venus 250 

Wansfell ! this household has a favored 

lot 



.••••-. ; 250 

While beams of orient light shoot wide and 

high 250 

In my mind's eye a Temple like a cloud. . • 250 
On the projected Kendal and Windermere 

Railway :•••.•• ^5' 

Proud were ye. Mountains, when, in times 

of old 251 

At Furness Abbey 251 

At Furness Abbey 251 



CONTENTS. 



M.EMOKIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803. 



Page. 
tJ'epa.tu.e ?rom the Vale of Grasmere, 

August, ■'803 252 

At the Gnive of Burns, 1803. Seven Years 

after liis Death 252 

Tl>i)Ut;hts suggested tbe Day following, on 
the Banks of Niih, nta. toe Poet's Resi- 
dence , 253 

To the Sons of Burns, after visiting the 

Grave of their Father 254 

Ellen Irwin ; or the Braes of Kirtle 254 

To a Highland Girl 255 

Glen-Almain ; or, the Narrow Glen 256 

Stepping Westward 256 



Pack. 

The Solitary Reaper 257 

Address to Kilchurn Castle, upon Loch 

Awe 257 

Rob Roy's Grave 25S 

Sonnet. Composed at Castle 259 

Yarrow Unvisited 259 

Sonnet in the Pass of Killicranky 2(kj 

The Matron of Jedborough and her Hus- 
band 260 

Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere- 

dale 261 

The Blind Highland Boy 261 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 18 14. 



The Brownie's Cell 2651 

Composed at Cora Liini, in sight of Wal- 
lace's Tower 266 1 



Effusion, in tlie Pleasure-ground on the 

banks of the Bran, near ])unkeld 266 

Yarrow Visited, September, 18 14 26>» 



POEMS DEDICATED TO NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE AND 

LIBERTY. 



PART I, 



Composed by the Sea-side, near Calais, Au- 
gust, 1 802 2('>f) 

Is it a reed that's shaken by the wind 269 

Composed near Calais, on the Road leading 

to Ardres, August 7, 1802 269 

I grieved for Bonaparte, with a vain 270 

Festivals have I seen that were not names. 270 
On the Extinction of the Venetian Repub- 
lic 270 

The King of Sweden 270 

To Toussaiiit L'Ouverture 271 

We had a female Passenger who came 271 

Composed in the Valley near Dover, on the 

day of landing 271 

Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood 271 

Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of 

Switzerland 271 

Written in London, September, 1S02 272 

Milton! thou should'st be living at this 
hour 272 



Great men have been among us ; hands 

that penned 272 

It is not to be thought of that the Flood.. 272 
When I have borne in memory what has 

tamed 272 

One might believe that natural miseiies.. . 273 
There is a bondage worse, far worse, to 

bear • 273 

Those times strike monied worldlings with 



dismay. 



73 



England ! the time is come when ihou 

should'st wean 273 

When, lookmg on the present face of things 274 

To the Men of Keiit. October, 1803 274 

What if our numbers barely could defy 274 

Lines on the expected Invasion. 1803 274 

Anticipation. October, 1S03 274 

Another year !— another deadly blow ! 271, 

Ode. Who rises on the banks of Seine... 275 



PART II. 



On a celebrated Event in Ancient History 276 

Upon the same Event 276 

To Thomas Clarkson, on the Final Passing 
of the Bill for the Abolition of the Slave 

Trade 276 

A Prophecy. February, 1807 276 

Composed by the Side of Grasmere Lake.. 277 

Go back to antique ages, if thine eyes 277 

Composed while tlie Author was engaged 



in Writing a Tract, occasioned by the 

Convention of Cintra 277 

Composed at the same Time and on the 

same occasion 277 

Hoffer 27S 

Advance— come forth from thy Tyrolean 

ground 278 

Feelings of tlie Tyrolcse 27^ 

Alas! what boots the long laboiiou? quest 278 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

And is it among rude untutored Dales. . . . 278 
O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on 

plain 279 

On the Final Submission of the Tyrolesc 279 

Hail, Zaragoza I 1{ with unwet eye 279 

Say, what IS Honor? — 'Tis the finest sense. 279 

'I'iie martial courage of a day is vain 279 

lirave Schill ! by death delivered, take thy 

flight 280 

Call not the royal Swede unfortunate 280 

Look now on tttat Adventurer who hath 

paid 280 

Is tliere a Power that can sustain and cheer 280 
Ah ! where is Palafox ? Nor tongue nor 

pen 280 

In due observance of an ancient rite 280 

Feelings of a Noble Biscayan at one of 

those Funerals 281 

The Oak of Guernica 281 

Indignation of a high-minded Spaniard — 281 

Avaunt all specious pliancy of mind 2S1 

O'erweening Statesmen have full long re- 
lied 282 

The French and the Spanish Guerillas 282 




Pagb. 

Spanish Guerillas 282 

The power of Armies is a visible thing 282 

Here pause : the poet claims at least this 

praise 282 

The French Army in Russia 283 

On the same Occasion 283 

By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze 283 

The Germans on the Heights of Hockheim 2S4 
Now that all l-,earts are glad, all faces 

bright 284 

Ode, 1814. — Wiien the soft hand of sleep 

had closed the latch 284 

Feelings of a French Royalist, on the Dis- 
interment of the Remains of the Duke 

d'Enghlen 286 

Occasioned by the Battle of Waterloo 286 

Siege of Vienna raised by John Sobieski.. 2S6 

Occasioned by the Battle of Waterloo 280 

Emperors and Kings, how oft have temples 

rung 287 

Ode, 1815. — Imagination — ne'er before con- 
tent 2S7 

Ode. — The Morning of the Day appointed 
for a General Thanksgiving. 1S16 788 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820 



Dedication 

Fish-women. — On Landing at Calais 

Bruges 

Bruges 

Incident at Bruges 

After visiting the Field of Waterloo 

Between Namur and Liege 

Aix-la-Chapelle 

In the Cathedral at Cologne 

In a Carriage, upon the Banks of the Rhine 
Hymn for the Boatmen, as they approach 

the Rapids under the Castle of Heidel- 

L>erg 

The Source of the Danube 

On approaching the Staub-bach. Lauter- 

brunnen 

The Fall of the Aar— Handec 

Memorial, near the Outlet of the Lake of 

Thun 

Composed in One of the Catholic Cantons. 

After-thought 

Scene on the Lake of Brientz 

Engelberg, the Hill of Angels ". . . 

Our Lady of the .Snow 

Effusion, in Presence of the Painted Tower 

of Tell, at Altorf 

Xhc Town of Si»h wy tz 



On hearing the " Ranz des Vaches^" on the 

Top of the Pass of St. Gothard .*. 297 

Fort Fuentes 298 

The Church of San Salvador, seen from 

the Lake of Lugano 29S 

The Italin Itinerant, and the Swiss Goat- 
herd. — Part I 29^ 

Part II 299 

The Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci, 
in the Refectory of the Convent at Maria 

della Grazia — Milan 300 

The Eclipse of the Sun, 1820 300 

The Three Cottage Girls 3"' 

The Column intended by Bonaparte for a 
Triumphant Edifice in Milan, now lying 

by the wayside in the Simplon Pass 302 

Stanzas, composed in the Simplon Pass.... 302 

Echo, upon the Gemmi 3t>3 

Processions. Suggested on a Sabbath 

Morning in the Vale of Chaniouny 303 

Elegiac Stanzas 304 

Sky-prospect — F'rom the Plain of France.. 305 
On being Stranded near the Harbor of 

Boulogne 305 

After landing— the Valley of Dover 305 

At Dover 3"6 

Desultory Stanzas 3u6 



CONTENTS. 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY, 1S37. 



Page. 

To H. C. Robinson 307 

Musings near Aquapennente 308 

Tlie Pine of Monte Mario at Rome 312 

At Rome 313 

At Rome. — Regrets. — In allusion to Nie- 

buhr and other modern Historians 313 

Continued 313 

Plea for the Historians 313 

At Rome 313 

Near Rome, m sight of St. Peter's 314 

At Albano 314 

Near Anio's stream, I spied a gentle Dove 314 
From the Alban Hills, looking towards 

Rome 314 

Near tiie Lake of Thrasymene 3 >4 

Near the same Lake 315 

The Cuckoo at Laverna 315 

At the Convent of Camaldoli 316 



Pagb 

Continued • 317 

At the Eremite or Upi)er Convent of Ca- 
maldoli 317 

At Vallombrosa 317 

At Florence 318 

Before the Picture of the Baptist, by Ra- 
phael, in the Galleiy at Florencfe 318 

At Florence. — From ^lichael AngeJo 318 

At Florence. — From M. Anpe'o 318 

Among the Ruins of a Cor.vent in the 

Apennines 319 

In Lombardy 319 

After leaving Italy 319 

Continued 319 

Composed at Rydal on May Morning, 1838 319 

The Pillar of Trajan 320 

The Egyptian Maid; ok, the Ro- 
mance OF THE Water Lily 321 



THE RIVER DUD DON. A SERIES OF SONNETS. 



To the Rev. Dr. Wordsworth 326 

Not envying Latin shades — if yet they 

throw 327 

Child of tha clouds! remote from every 

taint 327 

How shall I paint thee? — Be this naked 

stone 327 

Take, cradled Nursling of the mountain, 

take 327 

Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that 

played 32S 

Flowers 32S 

"Change me, jome God, into that breath- 
ing rose !" ' 328 

What aspect bore the Man who roved or 

fled :... 32S 

The Stepping;-^tones 328 

The same Subject 329 

The Faery Chasm 329 

Hints for the Fancy 329 

Open Prospect 329 

O mountain Stream ! the Shepherd and liis 

Cot 330 

From this deep chasm, where quivc wz, 

sunbeams play 330 

American Tradition 330 

Return 330 

Seathwaite Chapel 330 

Tributary Stream 331 



The Plain of Donnerdalc. 33 r 

Whence that low voice? — A whisper from 

the heart 331 

Tradition 331 

Sheep-washing 331 

The Resting-place 332 

Mcthinks 'twere no unprecedented feat.. . 332 

Return, Content! for fondly I pursued 332 

Fallen, and diffused into a shapeless heap.. 332 

Journey renewed 332 

No record tells of lance opposed to lance 332 
Who swerves from innocence, who makes 

divorce 333 

The KiKK OK Ui.i'HA to the pilgrim's eye. 333 

Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep. 333 

Conclusion 333 

Aftei-thought 333 

THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE ; 
OK, The Fate ok the Noktons — 

Dedication 334 

Canto I 335 

Canto II 339 

Canto III 340 

Canto IV 344 

C^nto V 346 

Canto VI 348 

Canto VII 550 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 



PART I. 



•From THE-lNTRonucTioN of Christianity into Britain, to titk 
Consummation of the Papal Dominion. 



Introduction <. 354 I Uncertainty 3S5 

Conjectures 354 | Persecution 355 

Trepidation of the Druids... .... . .. 354 Recovery 355 

Dniidical Excommunication , 355 | Temptations from Roman Refinements 355 



CONTENTS 



Page. 

Dissensions 356 

Struggle of the Britons against the Barba- 
rians 356 

Saxon Conquest 356 

Monastery of old Bangor 356 

Casual Incitement 356 

Glad Tidings 357 

Paulinus 357 

Persuasion.' 357 

Conversion ... 357 

Apology 357 

Priniitivc Saxon Clergy 35S 

Other Influe.ices 358 

Seclusion 358 

Continued 358 

Reproof 359 

Saxnn Monasteries, and Lights and Shades 
of the Religion 359 



PAGB. 

Missions and Travels 359 

Alfred 3S9 

His Descendants 359 

Ir.fluence Abused 36a 

Danish Conquests 36a 

Canute 360 

The Norman Conquest 360 

Coldly we spake. The Saxons overpow- 
ered 360 

The Council of Clermont 361 

Crusades 361 

Richard 1 361 

An Interdict 361 

Papal Abuses 362 

Scene in Venice 362 

Papal Dominion 36* 



PART II.— To THE Close of the Troubles in the Reign of Chaklbs I. 



How soon — alas ! did Man, created pure . 362 
From false assumption rose, and fondly 

hail'd 362 

Cistertian Monastery 363 

Deplorable his lot who tills the ground. . .. 363 

Monks and Schoolmen 363 

Other Benefits 363 

Continued 363 

Crusaders 364 

As faith thus sanctified the warrior's crest. 364 
Where long and deeply hath been fixed the 

root 364 

Transubstantiation 364 

The V.uidois 364 

Praised be the Rivers, from their mountain 

springs 365 

Waldenses 365 

Archbishop Chichely to Henry V 365 

Wars of York and Lancaster 36<; 

WichfTe.... ,. 365 

Corruption of the higher Clergy 366 

Al)use of Monastic Power ". 366 

Ml mastic Voluptuousness 366 

Dissolution of the Monasteries 366 

The same Subject 366 

Continued 367 



Saints 367 

The Virgin 307 

A-pclogy 367 

Imaginative Regrets 367 

Reflections 368 

Translation of the Bible 368 

The Point at issue 368 

Edward VI 368 

Edward signing the Warrant for the Exe- 
cution of Joan of Kent 368 

Revival of Popery 369 

Latimer and Ridley 369 

Cranmer 369 

General View of the Troubles of the Ref- 
ormation 369 

English Reformers in Exile . . - , 370 

Elizabeth 370 

Eminent Reformers 370 

The same 370 

Distractions 370 

Gunpowder Plot 371 

Illustration. The Jung-Frau and the Fall 

of the Rhine near Schaffhausen 371 

Troubles of Charles the First 371 

Laud 371 

Afflictions of England 371 



PART III.— From the Rhstoration to the Present Time. 



I saw tl figure of a lovely Maid 372 

I'atriotic Sympathies 372 

Cha Iv.. the Second 372 

Laf itu .inarianiim 372 

Walton's Book of Lives 372 

Clerical Integrity . . 373 

Persecution of the Scottish Covenanters.. . 373 

Acquittal of the Bishops 373 



Willijm the Third. 



373 



Db.igations of Civil to Religious Liberty.. 373 
^ache verel 37^ 



Down a swift Stream, thus far, a bold de- 
sign 374 

Aspects of Christianity in America — 

I. The Pilgrim Fathers 374 

11. Continued 374 

III. Concluded. — American Episcopacy. 375 
Bishops and Priests, blessed are ye, if deep. 375 

Places of Worship 375 

Pastorr\l Character ,., 375 

The Liturgy .,,, 375 

Baptism I'fft 



rOTTTENTS. 



Page. 

Sponsors 376 

Catechising <, 376 

Confirmation 37^ 

Confirmation— Continued •■ 376 

Saciament 377 

Ihe Marriage Ceremowiy , 377 

Thanksgiving after Childbirth 377 

Visitation of' the Sick.. 377 

The Commination Service 377 

Forms of Prayer at Sea 378 

Funeral Service 37S 

Rural Ceremony 378 

Regrets 378 

Mutability 378 



Page. 

Old Abbeys 379 

Emigrant French Clergy . 3/9 

Congratulation 37 > 

New Churches 379 

Church to be Erected 37'J 

Continued 380 

New Church-yard 380 

Cathedrals, &c 380 

Inside of King's College Chapel, Cam- 
bridge 3S0 

The Same 380 

Continued 381 

Ejaculation 381 

Conclusion 381 



YARROW . EVIi>. TED, AND O x HER POEMS. 



Composed (two excepted) during a Tour in Scotland, and on the English 
Border, in the Autumn of 1831. 



The gallant Youth, who may have gained. 3S2 
On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott from 

Abbotsfnnl, for N iples 383 

A Place tf Burial in the South of Scot- 
land 383 

On the Si^lu of a Manse in the South of 

Scotland 384 

Composed in Roslin Chapel, during a 

Storm 3S4 

The Trosachs 3S4 

The pibroch's note, discountenanced or 

mute 3S4 

Composed in the Glen of Loch Etive 384 

Eagles. Composed at Dunollie Castle in 

the Bay of Oban 385 

In the Sound of Mull 3S1; 

Suggested at Tyndruni in a Storm 385 

The Earl of Breadalbane's Ruined Man- 
sion, and Family Burial-Place, near 
Killin.. 3S5 



" Rest and be Thankful !" At the head of 

Glencroe 386 

Highland Hut , 386 

The Highland Broach 386 

The Brownie 387 

To the Planet Venus, an Evening Star. 

Composed at Loch Lomond 3S7 

Bothwell Castle. Passed unseen, on ac- 
count of stormy weather 388 

Picture of Daniel in the Lion's Den, at 

Hamilton Palace 388 

The Avon. A Feeder of the Annan 38,8 

Suggested by a View from an Eminence in 

Inglewood Forest 3SS 

Hart's-horn Tree, near Penrith 3S9 

I'ancy and Tradition 389 

Countess' Pillar 389 

Roman Antiquities. From the Reman 

Station at Old Penrith -^Sg 

Apology, for the foregoing Poems 389 



EVENING VOLUNTARIES. 



Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose . . 390 
On a high Part of the Coast of Cumberland 390 

I'y the Sea-side 39 1 

Not in the lucid intervals of life 391 

By the Side of Rydal Mere 392 

Soft as a cloud is yon blue Ridge — the Mere 392 
The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned 
hill 393 



The sun has long been set 3 1 < 

Composed upon an Evening of extraor(' - 

nary Splendor and Beauty • 3 > f 

Composed by the Sea-shore 3 ) » 

Tile Crescent-moon, the Star f>f Love...-. 395 
To the Mof>n. Composed by the Sea-side, 

— on the Coast of Cumberland 39? 

To the Moon.— Rydal 39* 



POEMS COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN THE 
SUMMER OF 1833. 

Adieu, Rydalian Laurels! that have grown 397 I They called Thee Merry England in old 

Why should the Enthusiast, journeying time : 397 

through this Isle 397 1 Tu the River GreU neAi Ke^iwick... 39^ 



10 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

To the River Derwent 398 

In SiglU of the Town of Cockermouth 398 

Address from the Spirit of Cockermouth 

Castle 398 

Wun's Well, lingliam 398 

I'o a Friend. On the Banks of the Der- 
went 399 

Mary Queen of Scots. Landing at the 

Mouth of the Derwent, Workington.... 399 
Stanzas suggested in a Steam-boat off Saint 
Bees' Heads, on tl»e Coast of Cumber- 
land 399 

[11 the Channel, between the Coast of Cum- 
berland and the Isle of Man 402 

At Sea off the Isle of Man 402 

Desire we pai-t Illusions to recall ? 402 

On entering Douglas Bay, Isle of Man.... 402 

By the Sea-shore, Isle 01 Man 402 

Isle of Man 403 

Isle of Man 403 

By a Retired Mariner. (A Friend of the 

Author) 403 

At Bala-Sala, Isle of Man. (Supposed to 

be written by a Friend). 403 

Tyn wald Hill 404 

Despond who will — 1 heard a voice exclaim 404 
In the Frith of Clyde, Ailsa Crag. During 

an Eclipse of the Sun, July 17 404 

On tlie Frith of Clyde. In a .Steam-boat. . 404 

On revisiting Dunolly Castle 404 

The Dunolly Eagle 404 



Page. 
Written in a Blank Leaf of Macpherson's 

Ossian 405 

Cave of Staff a 405 

Cave of Staffa. After the Crowd had de- 
parted 406 

Cave of Staffa 406 

Flowers on the Top of the Pillars at the 

Entrance of the Cave 406 

lona 4<->6 

lona. Upon Landing 407 

The Black Stones of lona 407 

Homeward we turn. Isle of Columbia's 

Cell 407 

Greenock 407 

"There!" said a Stripling, pointing with 

meet pride 407 

The River Eden, Cumberland 40S 

Monument of Mrs. Howard (by Noliekens), 
in Wetheral Church, near Corby, on the 

Banks of the Eden 408 

Suggested by the foregoing 40S 

Nunnery 408 

Steamboats, Viaducts, and Railways 409 

The Monument commonly called Long 
Meg and her Daughters, near the river 

Eden - 4o<) 

Lowlher ••• 409 

To the Earl of Lonsdale 409 

The Somnambulist 409 

To Cordelia M — , Hallste.ids, Ullswater. 411 
Most sweet it is with un uplifted eyes 411 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTIONS. 



Expostulation and Reply 412 

The Tables Turned. An evening Scene on 

the same Subject 412 

Lines written in Early Spring 413 

A. Character 413 

fo my Sister .. 413 

Simon Lee, the old Huntsman ; with an 

Incident in which he was concerned 414 

Written in Germany, on one of the coldest 

Days of the Ccntuiy 415 

A Poet's Epitaph 4i5 

To the Dai^y 416 

Matthew 416 

The two April Mornings 417 

The Fountain. A Conversation 417 

Personal Talk 418 

To the Spade of a Friend. (An Agricultu- 
rist.) Composed while we were laboring 

toi^ether in his Pleasure ground 419 

A Night Thought. 420 

Incident characteristu of a favorite Dog. .. 420 
Tribute to tlie Memory of the same Dog.. 420 

Fidelity 42 r 

Ode to Duty 42 1 

Character of the Happy Warrior 422 



The Force of Prayer ; or, the Founding of 

Bolton Priory. A Tradition 423 

A Fact, and an Imagination ; or^ Canute 

and Alfred, on the Sea-shore 424 

A little onward lend thy guiding hand 425 

Ode to Lycoris - 425 

To the Same 426 

The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields 427 

Upon the same occasion c. ...... .. 427 

Memory • .. 428 

This Lawn, a carpet all alive. < 428 

Humanity • <>•.. 428 

Thought on the Seasons 430 

To — , upon the Birth of her First-born 

Child, March, 1833... 430 

The Warning. A Sequel to the foregomg 430 

If this great world of joy and pain 433 

The Laborer's Noon-day Hyinn... o.... 433 

Ode composed on May Morning 433 

To May • 434 

Lines suggested by a Portrait from the 

Pencil of F. Stone .. 43$ 

The foregoing Subject resumed 437 

S11 fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive .... 43; 
Upon seeing a colored Drawing of the Bird 

of Paradise in an Album. 43! 



CONTENTS. 



tl 



SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY AND ORDER 



Page. 
Composed after reading a Newspaper of 

the Day 438 

Upon the late General Fast. March 1832. 438 

Said Secrecy to Cowardice and F'raud 439 

Blest Statesman He, wliose Mind's uiiself- 

isli will 439 

In allusion to various recent Histories and 

Notices of the Frencli Revolution 439 

Contuiued 439 

Concluded 439 



Pag* 
Men of the Western World! in Fate's dark 

book 44(1 

To tile Pennsyl vanians 44a 

At Bologna, in Rementbrance of the late 

Insurrections, 1837 44<i 

Continued .... 440 

Concluded 441 

Young England — what is then become of 

Old 441 

Feel for the wrongs to universal ken 441 



SONNETS UPON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. 



Suggested by the View of Lancaster Castle 

(on the Road from the South) 442 

Tenderly do we feel by Nature's law 442 

The Roman Consul doomed his sons to die 442 
\% Death, when evil against good has fought 442 

Not to the object specially designed , 443 

Ye blood of conscience — Spectres! that 

frequent 443 

Before the world had past her time of youth 443 



Fit retribution, by the moral code 443 

Though to give timely warning and deter. . 443 
Our bodily life, some plead, that life the 

shrine 443 

Ah, think how one compelled for life to 

abide 444 

See the Condemned alone within his cell.. 444 

Conclusion 444 

Apology 444 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Epistie to Sir George Rowland Beaumont, 
Bart. From the South-West Coast of 

Cumberland. — 181 1 445 

Upon perusing the foregoing Epistle thirty 

Years after its Composition 448 

Gold and Silver Fishes in a Vase . 449 

Liberty. (Sequel to the above.) [Address- 
ed to a Friend : the Gold and Silver 
Fishes having been removed to a Pool in 
the Pleasure-ground of Rydal Mount.].. 450 

Poor Robin 452 

The Gleaner. (Suggested by a Picture.).. 452 

To d Redbreast — (in Sickness.) 452 

Floating Island 453 

Once I could hail (howe'er serene the sky) 453 
To the Lady Fleming, on seeing the Foun- 
dation preparing for the Erection of Ry- 
dal Chapel, Westmoreland 454 



On the same Occasion n ••..«• 45; 

The Horn of Egremont Castle 455 

Goody Blake and Harry Gill. A true 

Story 456 

Prelude, prefixed to the Volume entitled 

'* Poems chiefly of Early and Late 

Years." ._ 458 

To a Child. Written in her Album 458 

Lines written in the Album of the Countess 

of l^onsdale. Nov. 5, 1834 45Q 

Grace Darling 460 

The Russian Fugitive — 

Part 1 461 

Part II 462 

Part III 463 

Part IV 464 



INSCRIPTIONS. 



In the Grounds of Coleorton, the Seat of 
Sir George Beaumont, Bart. Leicester- 
shire 465 

In a Garden of the Same 465 

Written at the Request of Sir George 
Beaumont, Bart., and in his Name, for an 
Urn, placed by him at the Termination 
of a newly-planted Avenue, in the same 

Grounds 466 

For a Seat in the Groves ot Coleorton 466 

Written with a Pciicil upon a biuiic \w the 



Wall of the House (an Out-house), on 
the Island at Grasmere .... 466 

Written with a Slate Pencil on a Stone, on 
the side of the Mountain of Black Comb 467 

Written with a Slate Pencil upon a Stone, 
the largest of a Heap lying near a desert- 
ed Quarry upon one of the Islands at 
Rydal 467 

In these fair vales hath many a Tree 468 

The massy Ways, carried across these 
heights , 441 



12 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

Inscriptions supposed to be found in and 

near a Hermit's Cell 46S 

I. Hopes wliat are they ? — Beads of 

morning 468 

II. Pause, Traveller! whosoe'er 

thou be.... 468 

III. Hast thou seen with flash inces- 
sant 469 



•■* Pagb. 
IV. Near the Spring of the Hermit- 
age 469 

V. Not seldom, clad in radiant vest.. 469 
For the Spot where the Hermitaue stood 
on St. Herbert's Island, Der- 

went-water 460 

On the Banks of a Rocky Stream 470 



SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER MODERNIZED. 



The Prioress' Tale 47° I Troilus and Cresida . 

The Cuckoo and the Nightingale 474 | 



478 



POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF AGE. 



The Old Cumberland Beggar 480 

The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale 483 

The Small Celandine * 484 



The Two Thieves ; or, the Last Stage of 

Avarice 4S5 

Animal Tranquillity and Decay 486 



EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 



Epitaphs translated from Chiabrer.i — 

Weep not, beloved Friends ! nor let 

the air 486 

Pefhaps some needful service of the 

State 486 

O Thou who movest onward with a 

mind 487 

Tiiere never breathed a man who, when 

his life 487 

True is it that Ambrosio Salinero 487 

Destined to war from very infancy 4S8 

O flower of all that springs from gentle 

blood : 488 

Not without heavy grief of heart did 

He 488 

Pause, courteous Spirit ! Balbi suppli- 
cates 488 

By a blest Husband guided, Mary came. . 489 
Six months to six years added he remained 489 

Cenotaph 489 

Eijitaph in the Chapel-yard of Langdale, 

Westmoreland 489 

Address to the, Scholars of the Village 

School of — 489 

Elegiac Stanzas, suggested by a Picture of 
Peele Castle in a Storm, painted by Sir 

George Beaumont 490 

To the Daisy • 49» 



Elegiac Verses, in memory of my Brother, 
John Wordsworth, Commander of the 
E. I. Company's Ship the Earl of Aber- 
gavenny, in which he v^erished by Ca'a'" - 
itous Shij)wreck, Feb. 6, 1S05 ,', '; ,- 

Lines composed at Grasmere, during a 
Walk one Evening, after a stormy Day, 
the Author having just read m a News- 
paper that the Dissolution of Mr. Fox j 
was hourly expected - ... 493 

Invocation to the Earth. February, 1816.. 493 

Lines written on a Blank Leaf in a Copy 
of the Author's Poem '• The Excursion," 
upon hearing of the Death of the late 
Vicar of Kendal 194 

Elegiac Stanzas. Addressed to Sir G. H. 
B., upon tlie Death of his Sister-iivlaw. . 494 

Elegiac Musings in the Grounds of Cole- 
orton Hall, the Seat of the late Sir G. H. 
Beaumont, Hart 494 

Written after the Death of Charles Lamb.. 495 

Extempore Effusion upon the Death of 
James Hogg 497 

Inscription for a Monument in Croslhwaite 
Church, in the Vale of Keswick 498 

ODE. Intimations of Immurtauty 
FKOM Recollections ok Early 
Chiluhooc... > 499 



'J hey Vairic^d WordsvTorl.h on ''atvr^ay, .vprii ">,! (I860), in 
Grasmere Churchyard. ''hai* is one oa the sv;eetest spots in all the 
world, the little dotted plot lying low, with its old grey chLirch, in 
.the arms o.f the green hiljbs, within Its half-circular road, breasted by 
its beautiful river and shaded by its spreading yews. . .']he grave is 
where th*:- poet himself wished it to be. . , It is in the sweetest corner 
of that sweet spot. A gravel path goes round it, and the low wall of 
the churchyard is VL-ry close at its foot a,nd at its side. ?rhen the 
day dawns it is the first "d^:(^. in the dale to know it, and being out of 
the shadow of the church, it is the last to parley with thv-^ setting 
sun. And i:-he beautiful river, the ""^otha, whlc].i babbles and laughs 
before it comes to this cornLr, anri again laughs 3.r\(S babbits beyond it, 
flovfs deep and silent and with a solemn hush as it goes slowly under 
the quiL-^t place o.':' the poet^s rest. 



I 



CONTENTS. 



^3 



THE, PRELUDE OR GROWTH OF^ POET'S MIND. 



AN AUTOUIOGRAPHICAL POEM. 



Pagh. 

Advertisement 501 

Book I. Introduction. Childhood and 

School-time 501 

11. School-time (continued). .. . 509 

III. Residence at Cambridge 514 

IV. Summer Vacation . 522 

V. Books 527 

VI. Cambridge and tiie Alps 535 

VI L Residence ni London 544 

Vill. Retrospect.— Love of Nature 

leading to t*ove of Man. . 553 



Pagb. 

Book IX. Residence in France 561 

X. Residence in France (contin- 
ued) 568 

XI. Residence in France (con- 
cluded) 575 

XII. Imagination and Taotj, how 

impaired and restored.. . 58/ 

XIII. Imagination and Taste, how 
inipa.,cd and restored 

Yiv r <""'''"'^^^^ 585 

XIV. Conclusion 589 



THE EXCURSION. 



Dedication — Preface to the Edition of 1814 595 

Book I. The Wanderer 598 

II. The Solitary 610 

III. Despondency 621 

IV. Despondency Corrected 633 

V. The Pastor 649 

VI. The Church-yard among the 

Mouutaius 66/ 



Book VII. The Church-yard among the 

Mountains (continued) 676 

VIII. The Parsonage 690 

IX. Discourse of the Wandersr, 
and an Evening Visit to the 
Lake 697 



POEMS 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



Of the Poems in this class, "The Evening Walk " and " Descriptive Sketches'*' 
were first published in 1793. They are reprinted with some alterations that were chiefly mad« 
very ^oon after their publication. 

This notice, which was written some tune ago, scarcely applies to the Poem, "Descriptive 
Sketches," as it now stands. The corrections, though numerous, are not, however, such as to 
prevent its retaining with propriety a place in the class of Juvenile Pieces. 
1836. 

Is cropping audibly his later meal : 

Dark is the ground ; a slumber seems to 

steal 
O'er vale, and mountain, and the starfcss 

sky, 
Now, in this blank of things, a harmony. 
Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal 
That grief for which the senses still supply 
Fresh food ; for only then, when memory 
Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! re- 
strain 
Those busy cares that would allay my pain ; 
Oh ! leave me to myself, nor let me feel 
The officious touch that makes me droop 
again. 



EXTRACT 

FROM THE CONCLUSION OF A POEM, COM- 
POSED IN ANTICIPATION OF 
LEAVING SCHOOL. 

Dear native regions, I foretell, 
From what I feel at this farewell, 
That, wheresoe'er my steps may tend, 
And whensoe'er my course shall end, 
If in that hour a single tie 
Survive of local sympathy, 
My soul will cast the backward view, 
The longing look alone on you. 

Thus, while the Sun sinks down to rest 
Far in the regions of the west. 
Though to the vale no parting beam 
Be given, not one memorial gleam, 
A lingering light he fonJly throws 
On the dear hills where first he rose. 
1786. 



WRITTEN IN VERY EARLY YOUTH. 

Calm is all nature as a resting wheel. 
The kine are couched upon the dewy grass 
The hor*i t alone, seen dimly as 1 pass, 



III. 



AN EVENING WALK. 

addressed to a YOUNG LADY. 

General .Sketch of tlie Lakes — Author's re- 
gret of his Youth which was passed 
amongst' them — Short description of 
Noon — Cascade — Noon-tide Retreat — 
Precipice and sloping Lights — Face of 
Nature as the Sun declines — Mountain- 
farm, and the Cock — Slate-quarry— .Sun- 
set — Superstition of the Country con- 
nected with that moment— Swans—Fe 



i6 



FORMS IVRITl EN IN YOUTH. 



male Beggar — Twilight-sounds — Western 
Liglits— -Spirits — Night— Moonlight — 
Hope — Nighl-suunds — Conclusion. 

Far from my dearest Friend, 'tis mine to 

rove 
Through bare gray dell, high wood, and 

pastoral cove ; 
Where Derwcnt rests, and listens to the 

roar 
That stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lin- 

dore ; 
Where peace to Grasmcre's lonely island 

leads, 
To willowy hedge-rows, and to emerald 

meads ; 
Leads to her bridge, rude church, and cot- 

taged grounds, 
Her rocky sheepwalks, and her woodland 

bounds ; 
Where, undisturbed by winds, Winander 

sleeps 
'Mid clustering isles, and holly-sprinkled 

steeps ; 
Where twilight glens endear my Esthwaite's 

shore. 
And memory of departed pleasures, more. 

Fair scenes, erewhile, I taught, a happy 
child. 
The echoes of your rocks my carols wild : 
The spirit sought not then, in cherished 

sadness, 
A cloudy substitute for failing gladness. 
In youth's keen eye the livelong day was 

bright. 
The sun at morning, and the stars at night, 
Alike, when first the bittern's hollow bill 
Was heard, or woodcocks roamed the moon- 
light hill. 

In thoughtless gayety I coursed the plain, 
And hope itself was all I knew of pain ; 
For then, the inexperienced heart would 

beat 
At times, while young Content forsook her 

seat. 
And wild Impatience, pointing upv/ard, 

showed, 
Through passes yet unreached, a brighter 

road. 
Alas ! the idle tale of man is found 
Depicted in the dial's moral round ; 1 

Hope with reflection blends her socia-i rays 
To gild the total tablet of his days ; 
Yet still, the sport of some malignant power, 
He knows but from its shade the present 

hour. 



But why, ungrateful, dwell on idle painf 
To slujw what pleasures yet to me remain, 
Say, will my Friend, with unreluctant car, 
The history of a poet's evening hear.'' 

When, in the south, the wan noon, brood- 
ing still. 
Breathed a pale steam around the glaring 

hill. 
And shades of deep-embattled iouds were 

seen, 
Spotting the northern cliffs with lights be- 
tween ; 
When crowding cattle, checked by rails that 

make 
A fence far stretched into the shallow lake, 
Lasiied the cool water witli their restless 

tails, 
Or from iiigh points of rock looked out tor 

fanning gales ; 
When school-boys stretched their length 

upon the green ; 
And round the broad-spread oak, a glhn- 

mering scene, 
In the rough fern-clad park the h.crded deer 
Shook \!v\Q^ still-twinkling tail and glancing 

ear ; 
Vvhen horses in the sunburnt intake * 

stood, 
And vainly eyed below the tempting flood, 
Or tracked tlic passenger, in mute distress, 
With forward neck the closing gate to 

press — 
Then, while I wandered where the huddling 

rill 
Brightens with water-breaks the hollow 

■ ghyll 1 
As by enchantment, an obscure retreat 
Opened at once, and stayed my devious feet. 
While thick above the rill the branches 

close; 
In rocky basin its wild waves repose, 
Inverted shrubs, and moss of gloomy green, 
Cling from the rocks, with pale wood-weeds 

between ; 
And its own twilight softens the whole 

scene. 
Save where aloft the subtle sunbeams shine 
On withered briars that o'er the crags re' 

cline ; 



* The word l7ttake is local, and signifies a 
niountain-inclnsure. 

t Cihyll is also, I believe, a term confined to 
this country : ghyll, and dingle, have the sant 
meaning. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



17 



Save where, with sparkling foam, a small 

cascade 
Illi'inines, from within, the leafy shade ; 
Beyond, along the vista of the brook. 
Where antique roots its bustling course 

overlook, 
The eye reposes on a secret bridge 
Half gray, half shagged with ivy to its 

ridge ; 
There, bending o'er the stream, the listless 

swain 
Lingers behind his disappearing wain. 
—Did Sabine grace adorn my hving line, 
Blandusia's praise, wild stream, should yield 

to thine ! 
Never shall ruthless minister of death 
'Mid thy soft glooms the glittering steel un- 

sheath ; 
No goblets shall, for thee, be crowned with 

tiowers, 
No kid with piteous outcry thrill thy bowers ; 
The mystic shapes that by thy margin rove 
A more benignant sacrifice approve — 
A mind, that, in a calm angelic mood 
Of happy wisdom, meditating good, 
Beholds, of all from her high powers re- 
quired, 
Much (.lone, and much designed, and more 

desired, — 
Harmonious thoughts, a soul by truth re- 
fined, 
Fntire affection for all human kind. 

Dear Brook, farewell ! To-morrow's 

noon again 
Shall lude me, wooing long thy wildwood 

strain ; 
But now the sun has gained his western 

road. 
And eve's mild hour invites my steps 

abroad. 

Wliile, near the midway cliff, the silvered 

kite 
In many a whistling circle wheels her flight ; 
Slant watery lights, from parting clouds, 

apace 
Travel along the precipice's base ; 
Clieering its naked waste of scattered stone. 
By lichens gray, and scanty moss, o'ergrown ; 
Where scarce the foxglove peeps, or thistle's 

beard ; 
And restless stone-chat, all day long, is 

heard. 

How pleasant, as the sun declines, to view 
The spacious landscape change in form and 
huel 



Here, vanish, as in mist, before a flood 
Of bright obscurity, hill, lawn, and wood ; 
There, objects, by the searching beams be- 
trayed, 
Come forth, and here retire in purple shade ; 
Even the white stems of birch, the cottage 

white. 
Soften tlieir glare before the mellow light ; 
The skiffs, at anchor where with umbrage 

wide 
Yon chestnuts half the latticed boat-house 

hide, 
Shed from their sides, that face the sun's 

slant beam. 
Strong flakes of radiance on the tremulous 

stream ; 
Raised by yon travelling flock, a dusty cloud 
Mounts from the road, and spreads its moving 

shroud ; [firt^j 

The shepherd, all involved in wreaths ot 
Now shows a shadowy speck, and now is 

lost entire. 

Into a gradual calm the breezes sink, 
A blue rim borders all the lake's still brink , 
There doth the twinkling aspen's foliage 

sleep, 
And insects clothe, like dust, the glassy 

deep : 
And now, on every side, the surface breaks 
Into blue spots, and slowly lengthening 

streaks ; 
Here, plots of sparkling water tremble bright 
With tliousand thousand twinkling points of 

light; 
There, waves that, hardly weltering, die 

away. 
Tip their smooth ridges with a softer ray ; 
And now the whole wide lake in deep repose 
I shushed, and like a burnished mirror glows, 
Save where, along the shady western marge, 
Coasts, with industrious oar, the charcoal 

barge. 
Their panniered train a group of potters 

goad. 
Winding from side to side up the deep road ; 
The peasant, from yon cliff of fearful edge 
S]Aot,down the headlong path darts with his 

sledge ; 
Bright beams the lonely mountain-horse 

illume 
Feeding 'mid purple heath, "green rings," 

and broom ; 
While the sharp slope the slackened team 

confounds, 
Downward the • ponderous timbi.r wain ri- 

sounds : 



i8 



POEMS WRITTEN IM YOUTH. 



in foamy breaks the ril!, with merry song, 

Dashed o'er the rough rock, hghtly leaps 
along ; 

From lonesome chapel at the mountain's 
feet, 

Three humble bells their rustic chime re- 
peat ; 

Sjunds from the water-side the hammered 
boat ; 

A.nd blasted quarry thunders, heard remote 1 

Even here, amid the sweep of endless 

woods, 
Blue pomp of lakes, high cliffs, and falling 

floods. 
Not undelightful are the simplest charms, 
Found by the grassy door of mountain-farms. 

Sweetly ferocious, round his native walks, 

Pride of his sister-wives, tlie monarch stalks ; 

^pur-clad his nervous feet, and firm his 
tread ; 

A crest of purple tops the warrior's head. 

Bright sparks his black and rolling eye-ball 
hurls 

Afar, his tail he closes and unfurls; 

On tiptoe reared, he strains his clarion 
throat, 

Threatened by faintly-answering farms re- 
mote: 

Again with his shrill voice the mountain 
rings. 

While, flapped with conscious pride, resound 
his wings ! 

Where, mixed with graceful birch, the 

sombrous pine 
And yew-tree o'er the silver rocks recline; 
] love to mark tlic cjuarry's moving trains. 
Dwarf panniered steeds, and men, and 

numerous wains : 
llovv busy all the enormous hive within, 
Wliile Echo dallies with its various din ! 
Some (hear you not their chisels' clhiking 

sound ?) 
Toil, small as pigmies in the gulf profound : 
Some, dim between the lofty cliffs descried, 
O'erwalk the slender plank from side to 

side : 
These, by the pale-blue rocks that ceaseless 

ring, 
In airy baskets hanging, work and sing. 

Just where a c\oud above the mountain 
rears 
An ed-^e of flame, the broadening sun ap- 
pears : 



A long blue bar its aegis orb divides, 

And breaks the spreading of its golden tides : 

And now that orb has touched the puiiple 

steep 
Whose softened image penetrates the deep. 
'Cross the calm lake's blue shades the clitts 

aspire, 
With towers and woods, a '• prospect all on 

fire : " 
While coves and secret hollows, through a 

ray 
Of fainter gold, a purple gleam betray. 
Each slip of lawn tlie broken rocks between 
Shines in the light with more than earthly 

green : 
Deep yellow beams the scattered stems 

illume. 
Far in the level forest's central gloom : 
Waving his hat, tiie shepherd, from the vale, 
Directs his winding dog tlie cliffs to scale, — 
Tlie dog, loud barking, 'mid the glittering 

rocks, 
Hunts, where his master points, the inter 

ceptcd flocks. 
Where oaks o'erhang the road the radiance 

shoots 
On tawny earth, wild weeds, and twisted 

roots ; 
Tlie druid-stones a brightened ring unfold ; 
And all the babbling brooks are liquid gold ; 
Sunk to a curve, tlie day-stur lessens still. 
Gives (.ne bright glance, and drops behind 

the hill* 

In these secluded vales, if village fame. 
Confirmed by hoary hairs, belief may claim ; 
When up tlie hills, as now, retired the light. 
Strange apparitions mocked the sliepherd's 

sight. 

The form appears of one that spurs his 

steed 
Midway along the hill with desperate speed ; 
Unhurt pursues his lengthened flight, while 

all 
Attend, at every stretrh, his headlong fall. 
Anon, appears a brave^ a gorgeous show 
Of htjrsemcn-shadovvs moving to and fro ; 
At intervals imperial banners stream, 
And now the van reflects the solar beam ; 
The rear through iron brown betrays a sullen 

gleam. [below, 

While silent stands the admiring crowd 
Silent the visionary warriors go, 
Winding in ordered jiomp their upward way 
Till the last banner of the long array 



♦From Thomson. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



19 



Has disappeared, and every trace is fled 
Of splendor — save the beacon's spiry head 
Tipt with eve's latest gleam of burning red. 

Now^, while the solemn evening shadows 
sail, 
On slowly-waving pinions, down the vale ; 
^nd, fronting the bright west, yon oak en- 
twines 
Its darkening boughs and leaves, in stronger 

lines ; 
'Tis pleasant near the tranquil lake to stray 
Where, winding on along some secret bay, 
The swan uplifts his cliest, and backward 

flings 
His neck, a varying arch, between his tow- 
ering wings : 
The eye that marks the gliding creature sees 
How graceful pride can be, and how majes- 
tic, ease. 
While tender cares and mild domestic loves 
With furtive watch pursue her as she moves, 
The female with a meeker charm succeeds, 
And lier brown little-ones around her leads, 
Nibbling the water lilies as they pass, 
Or playing wanton with the floating grass. 
She, in a mother's care, her beauty's pride 
Forgetting, calls the wearied to her side; 
Alternately they mount her back, and rest 
Close by her mantling wings' embraces 
prest. 

Long may they float upon this flood 

serene ; 
Theirs be these holms untrodden, still, and 

green, 
Where leafy shades fence off the blustering 

gale, 
And Ijreathes in peace the lily of the vale ! 
Yon isle, which feels not even the milk- 
maid's feet. 
Yet hears her song, " by distance made more 

sweet,'' 
Yon isle conceals their home, their hut-like 

bower ; 
Crcen water-rushes overspread the floor; 
Long grass and willows form the woven 

wall, 
And swings above the roof the poplar tall. 
Thence issuing often with unwieldy stalk. 
They crush with broad black feet their 

flowery walk ; 
Or, from the neighboring water, hear at 

morn 
The hound, the horse's tread, and mellow 

Uorn; 



Involve their serpent-necks in changefu' 

rings. 
Rolled wantonly between their slipjjery 

wings. 
Or, starting up with noise and rude delight, 
Force half upon the wave their cumbrous 

flight. 

Fair swan ! by all a mother's joys ca- 

ressed, 
Haply some wretch has eyed, and called 

thee blessed ; 
When with her infants, from some shady 

seat 
By the lake's edge, she rose — to face the 

noon-tide heat ; 
Or taught their limbs along the dusty road 
A few short steps to totter with their load. 

I see her now, denied to lay her head, 
On cold blue nights, in hut or straw-built 

shed. 
Turn to a silent smile their sleepy cry. 
By pointing to the gliding moon on iiigh. 
— When low-hung clouds each star of sum- 
mer liide. 
And tireless are the valleys far and wide. 
Where the brook brawls along the public 

road 
Dark with bat-haunted ashes stretching 

broad. 
Oft has she taught them on her lap to lav 
The shining glow-worm ; or, in heedless 

play. 
Toss it from hand to hand, disquieted ; 
While others, not unseen, are free to shed 
Green unmolested light upon their mossy 
bed. 

Oh ! when the sleety showers her path 

assail. 
And like a torrent roars the headstrong 

gale; 
No more her breath can thaw their fingers 

cold, 
Their frozen arms her neck no more caii 

fold ; 
Weak roof a cowering form two babes to 

shield, 
And faint the Are a dying heart can yield ! 
Press the sad kiss, fond mother ! vainly fears 
Thy flooded cheek to wet them with its 

tears ; 
No tears can chill them, and no bosom 

warms. 
Thy breast their death-bed, coffined in 

thine arms ! 



20 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



Sweet are the sounds tliat mingle from 

afar, 
Heard by calm lakes, as peeps the folding 

star, 
Where the duck dabbles 'mid the rustling 

sedge, 
And feeding pike starts from the water's 

edge, 
Or the swan stirs the reeds, his neck and 

bill 
\Vetting, that drip upon the water still ; 
And heron, as resounds the trodden shore, 
Shoots upward, darting his long neck before. 

Now, with religious awe, the farewell light 
Blends with the solemn coloring of night ; 
'Mid groves of clouds that crest the moun- 
tain's brow, 
And round the west's proud lodge their 

sliadows throw, 
Like Una shining on her gloomy way. 
The lialf-secn form of Twilight roams 

astray ; 
Shedding, tlirough paly loop-holes mild and 

small. 
Gleams tliat upon the lake's still bosom fall ; 
Soft o'er the surface creep those lustres 

pale 
Tracking the motions of the fitful gale. 
With .restless interchange at once the bright 
Wins on the sliade, the shade u]X)n the light. 
No favored eye was e'er allowed to gaze 
( Jn lovelier spectacle in fairy days ; 
When gentle Spirits urged a sportive chase, 
I'.rushing with lucid wands the water's face; 
While music, stealing round the glimmering 

deeps, 
Charmed the tall circle of the enchanted 

steeps. 
— The lights are vanished from the watery 

plains : 
No wreck of all the pageantry remains. 
ITnheeded night has overcome the vales : 
On the dark earth the wearied vision fails ; 
The latest lingerer of the forest train. 
The lone black fir, forsakes the faded plain ; 
Last evening sight, the cottage smoke, no 

more, 
Lost in the thickened darkness, glimmers 

hoar ; 
And, towering from the sullen dark-brown 

mere. 
Like a black wall, the mountain-steeps ap- 
pear. 
—Now o'er the soothed accordant heart v.e 

feel 
A sympathetic twilight slowly steal, 



And ever, as we fondly muse, we find 
The soft gloom deepening on the tranquil 

mind. 
Stay! pensive, sadly-pleasing visions, stay I 
Ah no! as fades the vale, they fade away ; 
Yet still the tender, vacant gloom remains; 
Still the cold cheek its shuddering tear re 

tains. 

The bird, who ceased, with fading light. 

to thread 
Silent the hedge or streamy rivulet's bed. 
From his gray reappearing tower shall soon 
Salute with gladsome note the rising moon, 
While with a hoary light she frosts the 

ground, 
And pours a deeper blue to .(Ether's bound; 
Pleased, as she moves, her pomp of clouds 

to fold 
In robes of azure, fleecy-white, and gold. 

Above yon eastern hill, where darkness 
broods 

O'er all its vanished dells, and lawns, and 
woods ; 

Where but a mass of shade the sight can 
trace. 

Even now she shows, half-veiled, her lovely 
face: 

Across the gloomy valley flings her light, 

Far to the western slopes wit^i hamlets 
white ; 

And gives, where woods the checkered up- 
land strew. 

To the green corn of sumn^er, autumn's hue. 

Thus Hope, first pouring from iier blessed 

horn 
Her dawn, far lovelier than the moon's own 

morn, 
'Till higlicr mounted, strives in vain to 

cheer 
The weary hills, imjKTvious, blackening 

near ; [while 

Yet does she still, undaunted, throw the 
On darling spots remote her tempting smile. 

Even now she decks for me a distant 
scene, 

(For dark and broad the gulf of time be- 
tween) 

Gilding that cottage with her fondest ray, 

(Sole bourn, sole' wish, sole object of my 
way ; 

How fair its lawns and sheltering woods ap- 
pear ! 

How sweet its streamlet murmurs in mini 
ear!) 



POEMS WRITTEN LV YOUTH. 



21 



Where we, my Friend, to happy days shall 

rise, 
'Till our small share of hardly-paininj; sighs 
(For sighs will ever trouble human breath) 
Creep hushed into the tranquil breast of 

death. 

But now the clear bright Moon her zenith 
gains, 
And,'rimy without speck, extend the plains : 
The deepest cleft the mountain's front dis- 
plays [ra} s ; 
Scarce hides a shadow from her searching 
From tiie dark-blue faint silvery threads 

divide 
The hills, while gleams below the azure tide ; 
Time softly treads ; throughout the land- 
scape breathes 
A peace enlivened, not disturbed, by wreaths 
Of charcoal-smoke, that o'er the fallen wood 
Steal down the hill, and spread along the 
flood. 

The song of mountain-streams, unheard 
by day, [way. 

Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward 
Air listens, like the sleeping v/ater, still, 
To catch the spiritual music of the hill, 
Broke only by the slow clock tolling deep, 
Or shout that wakes the ferry-man from 

sleep, 
The echoed hoof nearing the distant shore, 
The boat's first motion — made with dashing 

oar; 
Sound of closed %i'^&^ across the water borne, 
Hurrying the timid hsje through rustling 

corn ; 
The sportive outcry of the mocking owl ; 
.^nd at long intervals the mill-dog's howl ; 
The distant forge's swinging thump pro- 
found; 
Or yell, in the deep woods, of lonely hound. 

1787-9. 

♦ 

IV. 

LINES 

WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT 
EVENING. 

How richly glows the water's breast 
Before us, tinged with evening hues, 
While, facing thus the crimson west. 
The boat her silent course pursues ! 
And see how dark the backward stream ! 
A little moment past so smiling ! 
And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, 
l)ome other loiterers beguiling. 



Such views the youthful Mard allure: 
But, heedless of the following gloom, 
He deems their colors shall endure 
Till peice go with him to the tomb. 
— .And let liim nurse his fond deceit, 
And what if he must die in sorrow ! 
Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, 
Thougli grief and pain may come to-mor 
row.-* 
17S9. 



REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS. 

COMPOSED UPON THE THAMES NEAR 
RICHMOND. 

Glide gently, thus forever glide, 

O Thames that other bards may see 

As lovely visions by thy side 

As now, fair river ! come to me. 

O glide, fair stream ! forever so, 

Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, 

Till all our minds forever flow 

As thy deep waters now are flcwing. 

Vain thought ! — Yet be as now thou art, 
That in thy waters may be seen 
The image of a poet's heart, 
How bright, how solemn, how serene ! 
Such as did once the Poet bless. 
Who murmuring here a later •* ditty^ 
Could find no refuge from distress 
But in the milder grief of pity. 

Now let us, as we float along, 
For him suspend the dashing oar; 
And pray thar never child of song 
May know that Poet's sorrows more. 
How calm ! how still! the only sound, 
The dripping of the oar suspended ! 
— The evening darkness gathers round 
By virtue's holiest Powers attended 
17S9. 



DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES 

TAKEN DURING A PEDESTRIAN TOUR 
AMONG THE ALPS. 

TO THE REV. ROBERT JONES, 
FELLOW OF ST. jOIIX'S COLLEGE, CAM- 
BRIDGE. 

Dear Sir,— However desirous I might 
have been of giving you proofs of the high 



► Collins's Ode on the death of Thomson. 



22 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



place yi)U hold in my esteem, I should have 
been cautious of wounding your delicacy by 
thus publicly addressing you, had not the 
circumstance of our having been companions 
among the Alps seemed to give this dedica- 
tion a propriety sufficient to do away any 
scruples which your modesty might other- 
wise have suggested. 

In inscribmgthis little work to you, Icon- 
suit my heart. You know well how great is 
the difference between two companions loll- 
ing in a post-chaise, and two t.avellers plod- 
ding slowly along the road, side by side, 
each with his little knapsack of necessaries 
upon his shoulders. How much more of 
heart between the two latter ! 

I am happy in being conscious, that I 
phall have one reader who will approach the 
conclusion of these few pages with regret. 
You they must certainly interest, in remind- 
ing you of moments to which you can hardly 
look back without a pleasure not the less 
dear from a shade of melancholy. You will 
meet with few images without recollecting 
the spot where we observed them together ; 
consequently, whatever is feeble in my de- 
fcign, or spiritless in my coloring, will be 
amply supplied by your own memory. 

With still greater propriety I might have 
inscribed to you a description of some of 
the features of your native mountains, 
through which we have wandered together, 
in the same manner, with so much pleasure. 
But the sea-sunsets, which give such splen- 
dor to the vale of Clwyd, Snowdon, the 
chair of Idris, the quiet village of Bcthge- 
lert, Menai and her Druids, the Alpine 
steeps of the Conway, and the still more in- 
teresting windings of the wizard stream of 
the Dee, remain yet untouched. Ap]3rchen- 
sive that my pencil may never be exercised 
on these subjects, I cannot let slip this op- 
portunity of thus publicly assuring you with 
how much affection and esteem 
I am, dear Sir, 

Most sincerely yours, 

W, Wordsworth. 

London, 1793. 



Happiness (if she had been to be found on 
earth) among the charms of Nature — 
Pleasures of the pedestrian Traveller — 
Author crosses France to the Alps — Pres- 
ent state of the Grande Chartreuse — 
Lake of Como — Time, Sunset — .Same 
Scene, Twilight — Same Scene, Morning ; 



its voluptuous Character ; Old man and 
forest-cottage music — River Tusa — Via 
Mala and Grison (iipsy— Sckellenen-thal 
— Lake of Uri — Stormy sunset — Chapel 
of William Tell — Force of local emotion 
— Chamois-chaser — View of the higher 
Alps — Manner of life of a Swiss moun- 
taineer, interspersed with views of the 
higiier Alps — Golden age of the Alps — 
Lite and views continued— Ranz des 
Vaches, famous Swiss Air— Abbey of 
Einsiedlen and its pilgrims — Valley of 
Chamouny — Mont Blanc — Slavery of 
Savoy — Influence of liberty on cottage- 
happiness— France — Wish for the Extir- 
pation of Slavery — Conclusion. 

Were there, below, a spot of holy ground 
Where from distress a refuge might be 

found. 
And solitude prepare the soul for heaven ; 
Sure, nature's God that spot to man had 

given 
Where falls the purple morning far and wide 
In flakes of light upon the mountain side ; 
Where with loud voice the power of water 

shakes 
The leafy wood, or sleeps in c;uiet lakes. 

Yet not unrecompensed the man shall 

roam , 
Who at the call of summer quits his home, 
And plods through some wide realm o'er 

vale and height, 
Thoueh seeking only holiday delight ; 
At least, not owning to himself an aim 
To which tht sage would give a prouder 

name. 
No gains too cheaply earned his fancy cloy, 
Though every passing zephyr whispers joy; 
Brisk toil, alternating with ready ease, 
Feeds the clear current of his sympathies. 
For him sod-seats the cottage-door adorn ; 
And peeps the far-off spire, his evening 

bourn ! 
Dear is the forest frowning o'er his head. 
And dear the velvet green-swanl to his 

tread : 
Moves there a cloud o'er mid-day's flaming 

eye ? 
Upward he looks — " and calls it luxury : " 
Kind Nature's charities his steps attend ; 
In every babbling brook he finds a friend ; 
While chastening thoughts of sweetest us^ 

bestowed 
By wisdom, moralize his pensive road. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



«3 



Host of his welcome inn, the noon-tide 

bower, 
To his spare meal he calls the passing poor ; 
He views the sun uplift his golden fire, 
Or sink, with heart alive lilce Memnon's 

lyre ; [ray, 

Blesses the moon that comes with kindly 
To light him shaken by his rugged way. 
Back from his sight no bashful children 

steal ; 
He sits a brother at the cottage-meal ; 
His humble looks no shy restraint impart; 
Around him plays at will the virgin lieart. 
While unsuspended wlicels the village dance, 
The maidens eye him with enquiring glance. 
Much wondering by what fit of crazing care, 
Or desperate love, bewildered, he came 

there. 

A hope, that prudence could not then 

approve, 
That clung to Nature with a truant's love, 
O'er Gallia's wastes of corn my footsteps 

led; 
Her files of road-elms, high above my head 
In long-drawn vista, rustling in the breeze : 
Or where her patliways straggle as they 

please 
By lonely farms and secret villages. 
lUit lo ! the Alps, ascending white in air, 
Toy vrith the sun and glitter from afar. 

And now, emerging from the forest's 

gloom, 
I greet thee, Chartreuse, while I mourn thy 

doom. 
VViiither is fled that Power whose frown 

severe 
Awed sober Reason till she crouched in 

fear 'i 
Thill Silence, once in de;*tlilike fetters 

bound, 
Chains that were loosened only by the 

sound 
Of iioly rites chanted in measured round .'' 
— The voice of blasphemy the fane alarms, 
Tlie cloister startles at the gleam of arms. 
Tiie thundering tube tlie ageri angler hears, 
Bent o'er the groaning flood that sweeps 

away his tears. 
Cloud-piercing pine-trees nod their troubled 

heads. 
Spires, rocks, and lawns a browner night 

o erspreads ; 
Strong terror checks the female peasant's 

sighs, 



And start the astonished shades at female 

eyes. 
From Bruno's forest screams the affrighted 

And blow the insulted eagle wheels away. 
A viewless flight of lavghing Demons mock 
The Cross, by angels planted * on the aerial 

rock. 
The " parting Genius " sighs with hollow 

breath 
Along the mystic streams of Life and 

Death, t 
Swelling the outcry dull, that long resounds 
Portentous through her old woods' trackless 

bounds, 
Vallombre,J 'mid her falling fanes, deplores, 
Forever broke, the sabbath of her bowers. 

More pleased, my foot the hidden margin 

roves 
Of Como, bosomed deep in chestnut groves. 
No meadows thrown between, the giddy 

steeps 
Tower, bare or sylvan, from the narrow 

deeps. 
— To towns, whose shades of no rude noise 

complain, 
From ringing team apart and grating wain— 
To flat-roofed towns, that touch the water's 

bound, 
Or lurk in woody sunless glens profound, 
Or, from the bending rocks, obtrusive cling, 
And o'er the whitened wave their shadows 

fling- 
The pathway leads, as round the steeps it 

twines ; 
And Silence loves its purple roof of vines. 
The loitering traveller hence, at evening, 

sees 
From rock-hewn steps the sail between the 

trees ; 
Or marks, 'mid opening cliffs, fair dark- 
eyed maids 
Tend the small harvest of their garden 

glades ; 
Or stops the solemn moutita'.n-shades to 

view 
Stretch o'er the pictured mirror broad and 

blue, 
And track the yellow lights from stetp to 

steep, 
As up the opposing hills they slowly creep. 



* Alludiivj; to crosses seen on the t(n>s of the 
spiry Kicks of Chartreuse. 

t Names of rivers at the Chartreuse. 

i Name of one of tlie valleys of the Cha» 
treuse. 



H 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



Aloft, here, half a village shines, arrayed 
[n golden light ; half hides itself in shade : 
While, from amid the darkened roofs, the 

spire, 
Restlessly flashing, seems to mount like 

fire : 
There, all unshaded, blazing forests throw 
Rich golden verdure on the lake below. 
Slow glides tlie sail along the illumined 

shore, 
And steals into the shade the lazy oar ; 
Soft bosoms breathe around contagious 

sighs, 
And amorous music on the water dies. 

How blest, delicious scene ! the eye that 

greets 
Thy open beauties, or thy lone retreats ; 
Beholds the unwearied sweep of wood that 

scales 
Thy cliffs ; the endless waters of thy vales ; 
Thy lowly cots that sprmkle all the shore, 
Each with its household boat beside the 

door ; 
Thy torrents shooting from the clear-blue 

sky ; 
Thy towns, that cleave, like swallow's nests, 

on high ; 
That glimmer hoar in eve's last light, de- 
scried 
Dim from the tv/Jli.;ht waters shaggy side. 
Whence lutes and voices down the en- 
chanted woods 
Steal, and compose the oar-forgotten 

floods ; 
— Tliy lake, that, streaked or dappled, blue 

or gray, 
'Mid smoking woods gleams hid from 

morning's ray 
Slow-travelling down the western hills, to 

enfold 
Its green-tinted margin in a blaze of gold ; 
Thy glittering steeples, whence the matin 

bell 
Calls forth the woodman from his desert 

cell. 
And quickens the blithe sound of oars that 

pass 
Along the streaming lake, to early mass. 
But now farewell to each and all — adieu 
To every charm, and last and chief to you, 
Jfe lovely maidens that in noontide shade 
Rest near your little plots of wheaten 

glade ; 
To all that binds the sctil in powerless 

trance, 
Lip-dewing song, and ringlet-tossing dance; 



Where sparkling eyes and breaking smiles 

illume 
Thy sylvan cabin's lute-enlivened gloom. 
— Alas ! the very murmur of the streams 
Breathes o'er the failing soul voluptuoiis 

dreams, 
While Slavery, forcing the sunk mind to 

dwell 
On joys that might disgrace the captive's 

cell. 
Her shameless timbrel shakes on Como's 

marge, 
And lures from bay to bay the vocal barge, 

Yet are thy softer arts with power indued 
To soothe and cheer the poor man's soli- 
tude. 
By silent cottage-doors, the peasant's home 
Left vacant for the day, I love to roam. 
But once I pierced the mazes of a wood 
In which a cabin undeserted stood ; 
There an old man an olden measure 

scanned 
On a rude viol touched with withered hand, 
As lambs or fawns in April clustering lie 
Under a hoary oak's thin canopy 
Stretched at his feet, with stedfast upward 

eye 
His children's children listened to the 

sound ; 
— A Hermit with his family around! 

But let us hence ; for fair Locarno smiles 
Embowered in walnut slopes and citron 

isles : 
Or seek at eve the banks of Tusa's stream, 
Where, 'mid dim towers and woods, her 

wateis gleam 
From the bright wave, in solemn gloom re- 
tire 
The dull-red steeps, and, darkening still, 

aspire / 

To where afar rich orange lustres glow 
Round undistinguished clouds, and rocks, 

and snow : 
Or, led where Via Mala's chasms confine 
The indignant waters oi the infant Rhine, 
Hang o'er the abyss, whose else impervious. 

gloom 
His burning eyes with fearful light illume. 
The mind condemned, without reprieve^ 

to go 
O'er life's long deserts with its charge ol 

woe. 
With sad congratulation joins the train 
Where beasts and men together o'er the 

plain 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



25 



Move on — a mighty caravan of pain r 
Hope, strengtli, and courage, social suffer- 
ing brings, 
Freshening tiie wilderness with shades and 

springs. 
— There be whose lot far otherwise is cast : 
Sole huniar tenant of the piny waste, 
By choice or doom a gypsy wanders here, 
A. nursling babe her on'y comforter* 
Lo, wiierc she sits beneath yon sliaggy 

rock, 
A cowering shape half hid in curling 
smoke ! 

When lightning among clouds and moun- 
tain snows 

Predominates, and darkness comes and 
goes, 

And the fierce torrent at the flasiies broad 

Starts, like a horse, beside the glaring 
road — 

She seeks a covert from the battering 
shower 

In the roofed bridge ; the bridge, in that 
dread hour, 

Itself all trembling at the loircnt's power. 

Nor is she more at ease on some still 

niglit, 
When not a star supplies the comfort of its 

liuht; 
Only the waining moon hangs dull and red 1 
Above a melancholy mountain's head, ' 

Then sets. In total eloom tho Vagrant i 

sighs, 
Stoops her sick head, and shuts her weary 

eyes ; 
Or on her fingers counts the distant clock, 
Or to the drowsy crow of midnight cock, 
Listens, or quakes while from the forest's 

gulf 
Howls near and nearer yet the famished 

wolf. 

From the green vale of Urseren smooth 

and wide 
Descend we now, the maddened Reuss our 

guide ; 
By rocKs that, shutting out the blessed day. 
Cling tremblingly to rocks as loose as they ; 
By cells upon whose image, while he prays, 
The kneeling peasant scarcely dares to 

gaze: 
By many a votive do?.th-cross planted near, 
And watered -inly with the pious tear. 
That faded sik-nt from the upwar, oye 
'Jnmoved with each rude form of peril 

»>"!' '- 



Fixed on the anchor left by llim who saves 
Alike in wlielming snows, and roaring 
waves. 

But soon a peopled region on the sight 
Opens — a little world f calm delight ; 
Where mists, suspended on the expiring 

gale, 
Spre.\d roof-like o'er the deep secluded vale 
And learns of evening slipjiing in between, 
Oently illuminate a sober scene ; — 
Here, on the brown wood-cottages they 

sleep, 
There, over rock or sloping pasture creep. 
On as we journey, in clear view disjjlayed, 
The still vale lengthens underneath its 

shade 
Of low-hung vapor : on the freshened 

niead [recede. 

The green light sparkles ; — the dim bowers 
While pastoral pipes and streams the land- 
scape lull. 
And bells of passing mules that tinkle dull 
In solemn shapes before the admiring eye 
Dilated hang the misty pines on higli. 
Huge convent domes with pinnacles and 

towers, 
And anticjue castles seen through gleamy 

showers. 

From such romantic dreams, my soul, 

awake ! 
To sterner pleasure, where, by Uri's lake 
In Nature's jiristinc majesty outspread, 
Winds neither road nor path for foot to 

*read : 
The rocks rise naked as a wall, or stretch 
Far o'ei the water, hung with groves of 

beech ; 
Aerial pines from loftier steeps ascend. 
Nor stop but where creation seems t end. 
Yet here and there, if 'mid the savagf 

scene 
Appears a scanty plot of smiling green, 
Up from the lake a zigzag path will creep 
To reach a small wood-hut hung /■cldly on 

the steep. 
■ Before those thresholds (nev: can they 

know 
The face of traveller pa; sing t; and fro) 
No peasant lear.r upon h s pcle, to tell 
F >r wlv ut morni-ig tolled the funeral 

f-cji : 

r/.eir /'. -d:>g ne'er his angry bark fore- 
fo Itched by thv beggar's moan ■)f hunnr- 



i€ 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



The shady porch ne'er offered a cool seat 
To pilgrims overcome by summer's heat. 
Yet thither the world's business finds its 

way 
At times, and tales unsought beguile the 

day, 
And there are those fond thoughts which 

Solitude, 
However stern, is powerless to exclude. 
There doth the maiden watch iier lover's 

sail 
Apnroaching, and upbraids the tardy gale ; 
At midnight listens till his parting oar, 
And its last echo, can be heard no more. 

And what if ospreys, cormorants, licrons, 

cry, 
Amid tempestuous vapors driving by. 
Or hovering over wastes too bleak to rear 
That common growth of earth, the foodful 

ear ; 
Where the green apple shrivels on the 

spray, 
And pines the unripened pear in summer's 

kindliest ray ; 
Contentment sliares the desolate domain 
With Independence, child of high Disdain. 
Exulting 'mid the winter of tlie skies. 
Shy as the jealous chamois. Freedom flics. 
And grasps by fits her sword, and often 

eyes ; 
And sometimes, as from rock to rock she 

bounds, 
The Patriot nymph starts at imagined 

sounds, 
And, wildly pausing, oft she hangs aghast, 
Wliether some old Swiss air hath checked 

her haste 
Or thrill of Spartan fife is caught between 

the blast. 

Swoln with incessant rains from hour to 

hour, 
All day the deepening floods a murmur 

pour : 
The sky is veiled, and every cheerful sight : 
Dark is the region as with coming night ; 
But what a sudden burst of overpowering 

light ! 
Triumphant on the bosom of the storm, 
Glances the wheeling eagle's glorious form ! 
Eastward, in long perspective glittering, 

shine 
The wood-crowned cliffs that" o'er the lake 

recline ; 
Those lofty cliffs a hundred streams unfold. 
At once to pillars turned that flame with 

gold: 



Behind his sail the peasant shrinks, to shu* 
The west, that burns like one dilated sun, 
A crucible of mighty compass, felt 
By mountains, glowing till they seem to 
melt. 

But, lo ! the boatman, overawed, before 
The pictured fane of Tell suspends his jar 
Confused the Marathonian tale appears. 
While his eyes sparkle with heroic tears. 
And who, that walks where men of ancient 

days 
Have wrought with godlike arm tlie deeds 

of praise, 
Feels not the spirit of the place control. 
Or rouse and agitate his laboring soul ? 
Say, wlio, by thinking on Canadian hills, 
Or wild Aosta lulled by Alpine rills. 
On Zutphen's plain or on that Highland 

dell, 
Through which rough Garry cleaves his way 

can tell 
What high resolves exalt the tenderest 

thought 
Of him whom passion rivets to the spot, 
Wliere breathed the gale that caught Wolfe's 

happiest sigh, 
And the last sunbeam fell on Bayard's eye ; 
Where bleeding Sidney from the cup re- 
tired. 
And glad Dundee in "faint huzzas" ex- 
pired .'' 

But now with other mind I stand alone 
Upon the summit of this naked cone. 
And watch the fearless chamois-hunter 

chase 
His prey, through tracts abrupt of desolate 

space, [gave 

Through vacant worlds where Nature nevet 
A brook to murmur or a bougli to wave, 
Which unsubstantial Phantoms sacred 

keep; 
Thro' worlds where Life, and Voice, and 

Motion sleep ; 
Where silent Hours their death-like sway 

extend, 
Save when the avalanche breaks loose, tc 

rend 
Its way with uproar, till the ruin, drowned 
In some dense wood or gulf of snow pro- 
found, 
Mocks the dull ear of Time with deep 

abortive sound. 
— 'Tis his, while wandering on from height 

to height, 
To see a planet's pomp and steady light 



rnr.jr^ iVRirrExW in vourrr 



V 



In the least star of scarce-appearing 

night ; 
While the pale moon moves noar him, on 

the bound 
Of ether, shining with diminished round. 
And far and wide the icy summits blaze, 
Rejoicing in the glory of her rays : 
I'o him the day-star glitters small and 

bright, 
Sliorn of its beams, insufferably white, 
And he can look beyond the sun, and view 
Tliose fast-receding depths of sable blue 
Flying till vision can no more pursue ! 
■ — At once bewildering mists around him 

close, 
And cold and hunger are his least of woes ; 
The Demon of the snow, with angry roar 
Descending, shuts for aye his prison door. 
Soon with despair's whole weight his spirits 

sink ; 
Bread has he none, the snow must be his 

drink •, 
And, ere his eyes can close upon the 

day, 
The eagle of the Alps o'ershades her prey. 

Now couch thyself where, herad with fear 
afar. 

Thunders through echoing pines the head- 
long Aar; 

Or rather stay to taste the mild delights 

Of pensive Underwaldcn's pastoral heights. 

— Is there who 'mid these awful wilds has 
seen 

The native Genii walk the mountain green ? 

Or heard, while other worlds their charms 
reveal, 

Soft music o'er the aerial summit steal ? 

While o'er the desert, answering every 
close, 

Rich steam of sweetest perfume comes and 
goes. 

—And sure there is a secret Power that 
reigns 

Here, where no trace of man the spot pro- 
fanes, 

Nought but the chalets, flat and bare, on 
h.gh 

Suspended 'mid the quiet of the sky ; 

Or distant herds that pasturing upward 
creep, 

And, not untended, chmb the dangerous 
steep. 

How still ! no irreligious sound or sight 

Rouses the soul from her severe delight. 

An idle voice, the sabbatli region fills 

Of Deep that calls to Deep across the hills, 



And with that voke accords the soothing 

sound 
Of drowsy bells, forever tinkling roimd ; 
Faint wail of eagle melting into blue 
licneath the cliffs, and pine-wood's steady 

sui^h ; * 
The .solitary heifer's deepened low ; 
Or rumbling, heard remote, of falhng snr.w. 
All motions, sounds, and voices, far and 

nigh, 
Ijlcnd in a music of tranquillity ; 
Save when, a stranger seen below, the boy 
Shouts from the echoing hills with savage 

joy. 

When, from tlie sr.nny breast of open 

seas, 
And bays wilh myrtle fringed, the southern 

breeze 
Comes on to gladden .April with the sight 
Of green isles widening on each snow-clad 

^height ; 
When shout and lowing herds the valley 

fill, 
And louder torrents stun the noon-tide hill, 
The pastoral Swiss begin the cliffs to scale, 
Leaving to silence the deserted vale ; 
And like the Patriarchs in their simple age 
Move, as the verdure leads, from stage to 

stage ; 
High and more high in Summer's heat 

they go. 
And hear the rattling thunder far bek'W ; 
Or steal beneath the mountains, half-de- 
terred, 
Where huge rocks tremble to the bellowing 

herd. 

One I behold who, 'cross the foaming 

flood. 
Leaps with a bound of graceful hardihood ; 
Another high on that green ledge , — lie 

gained 
The tempting spot with every sinew 

strained ; 
And downward thence a knot of grass he 

throws, 
Food for his beasts in time of winter snows, 
— Far different life from what tradition 

hoar 
Transmits of happier lot in times of yore ! 
Then Summer lingered long ; and honey 

flowed 
From out the rocks, the wild bees' safe 

abode : 



* Sugh, a Scotch word expressive of tha 
sound of the wind through the trees. 



2*5 



rnr.Afs ir^/^/Ti/i/v /n youth. 



Continiia\ waters welling clieered tlie 

waste, 
And i)]ants were wliolcsonic, now of deadly 

taste : 
Nor Winter yet his frozen stores had piled, 
Usurping where the fairest herbage smiled : 
Nor Hunger driven the herds from pastures 

bare, 
To climb the treacherous cliffs for scanty 

fare. 
Then the n^ilk-thistle flourished through the 

land, 
And forced the full-swoln udder to demand, 
Thrice every day, the pad and welcome 

iiand. 
Thus docs the father to his children tell 
Of banished bliss, by fancy loved too well. 
Alas ! that human guilt provoked the r;;d 
Of angry Nature to avenge her God. 
Stdl Nature, ever just, to him imparts 
joys only given to uncurnipted hearts. 

'Tis morn : with gold the verdant moun- 
tain glows ; 

More high, the snowy peaks with hues of 
rose. 

Far-stretched beneath the many-tinted hills, 

A mighty waste of mist the valley fills, 

A solemn sea ! whose billows wide around 

Stand motionless, to awful silence bound ; 

Pines, on the coast, through mist their tops 
uprear. 

That like to leaning masts of stranded ships 
appear, 

A single chasm, a gulf of gloomy blue, 

Gapes in the center of the sea— and tiuough 

That dark mysterious gulf ascending, 
sound 

Innumerable streams with roar profound. 

Mount through the nearer vapors notes of 
birds, 

And merry flageolet ; the low of herds. 

The bark of dogs, the heifer's tinkling 
_ bell, 

Talk, laughter, and perchance a church- 
tower knell • 

Think not, the peasant' from aloft has 
gtzed 

And heard with heart unmoved, with soul 
unraised ; 

Nor is his spirit less enrapt, nor less 

Alive to independent happiness. 

Then, when he lies, out-stretched, at even- 
tide 

Upon the fragrant mountain's purple side • 

For as the pleasures of his simple day 

Beyond his native valley seldom otray, 



Nought round its darling precints can h» 

finil 
But brings some j ast enjoyment to his 

mind ; 
While Hope, reclining upon Pleasure's '.irn, 
Binds her wild wreaths, and whispers his 

return. 

Once, Man entirely free, alone and wild, 
Was blest as free — for he was Nature's 

child. 
}Ie all superior but his God disdained, 
Walked none restraining, and by none re- 
strained : 
Conf;.'Ssed no law but what his reason 

taught. 
Did all he wished, and wished but what he 

ought, 
As man in his primeval dower arrayed 
The image of his glorious Sire displayed. 
Even so, by faitlifiil Nature guarded, here 
Tlie traces of primeval Man ai^jiear ; 
The simple dignity no forms debase; 
TJie eye sublime, and surly lion-gracc: 
The slave of none, of beasts alone the lord, , 
His book he prizes, nor neglects his sword; 
—Well tauglit by that to feel his rights, 

prepared 
With this " th^^ blessings h;^ enjoys ig 
guard." 

And, as his native hills rncirclc groimd 
For many a marvellous victory renowned. 
The work of Freedom daring to oppose, 
With few 111 arms innumerable foes, 
When to those famous fields his stops are 

led, 
An unknown power connects him with the 

dead : 
For images of other worlds are there ; 
Awful the light, and holy is the air. 
Fitfullv, and in flashes, through his sou', 
Like sun-lit tempests, troubled transports 

roll ; 
His bosom heaves, his spirit towers amain. 
Beyond the senses and their little reign. 

And oft, when that dread vision hath 

past by, 
He holds with God himself communion 

high. 
There where the peal of swelling torrents 

fills 
The sky-roofed temple of the eternal hills ; 
Or, when upon the mountain's silent brow 
Reclined, he sees, above him and below, 
Bright stars of ice and azure fields oJ 

snow; 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH 



29 



While needle peaks of granite shooting bare 

Tremble in ever-varying tints of air. 

And when a gathering weight of shadows 

brown 
Falls on the valleys as the sun goes down ; 
And Pikes, of darkness named and fear 

and storms,* 
Uplift in quiet their illumined forms, 
In sea-iike reach of prospect round him 

sjiread, 
Tinged like an angel's smile all rosy red — 
Awe in his breast with holiest Tove unites, 
And the near heavens imjaart their own de- 
lights. 

When downward to his winter hut he 

goes, 
Dear and more dear the lessening circle 

grows ; 
That hut which on the hills so oft employs 
His thoughts, the central point of all his 

joys. 
And as a swallow, at the hour of rest, 
Peeps often ere she darts into her nest, 
So to the homestead, where the grandsire 

tends 
A little prattling child, he oft descends, 
To glance a look upon the well-matched 

pair ; 
Till storm and driving ice blockade him 

there. 
There, safely guarded by the woods behind, 
lie licars the chiding of the baffled wind, 
Hears Winter calling all his terrors round. 
And, blest within himself, he shrinks not 

from the sound. 

Through Nature's vale his homely pleas- 
ures glide. 

Unstained by envy, discontent, and pride ; 

The bound of all his vanity, to deck, 

With one bright bell, a favorite heifer's 
neck; 

Well pleased upon some simple annual 
feast, 

Remembered half the year and hoped the 
rest. 

If dairy-produce, from his inner hoard, 

Of thrice ten sunnners dignify the board. 

— Alas ! in every clime a flying ray 

Is all we have to cheer our wintry way ; 

And here the unwilling mind may moie 
than trace 

The general sorrows of the human race : 



* As .Schreck-Horn, the pike of terror : 
ter-Horii, the pike of storms, &c., &c. 



Wct- 



The churlish gales of penury, that blow 
Cold as the north wind o'er a waste of 

snow, 
To them the gentle groups of bliss deny 
That on the noon-day bank of leisure lie. 
Yet more ;— compelled by Powers which 

only deign 
That solitary man distiub their reign, 
Powers that support au imremitting strife 
With all the tender charities of life, 
Full ott the father, wlien his sons have grown 
To manliood, seems their title to disown ; 
And from his nest amid the storms of 

heaven 
Drives, eagle-like, those sons as he was 

driven ; 
With stern composure watches to the 

plain — 
And never, eagle-like, beholds again ! 

When long familiar joys are all resigned, 
Why does their sad remembrance haunt liie 

mind 1 
Lo ! where through flat Catavia's willovvj 

groves, 
Or by the lazy Seine, the exile roves ; 
O'er the ciuled waters Alpine measures 

swell, 
And search the affections to their inmost 

cell; 
Sweet poison spreads along the listener's 

veins, 
Turning past j>leasures into mortal pains ; 
I'oison, which not a frame of steel can 

brave, 
Bows his young head with sorrow to the 

grave. 

Gay lark of hope, thy silent song resume I 
Ye flattering eastern lights, once more the 

hills illume ! 
Fresh gales and dews of life's delirious 

morn. 
And thou, lost fragrance of the heart, re- 
turn ! 
Alas ! the little joy to man allowed 
Fades like the lustre of an evening cloud ; 
Or like the beauty in a flower installed, 
Whose season was, and cannot be recalled. 
Yet, when opprest by sickness, grief, or 

care, 
And taught that pain is pleasure's natural 

heir, 
We still confide in more than we can know : 
Deatli would be else the favoitle friend ck 
woe. 



JO 



POEMS WRITTEN TN YOUTH. 



'Mid savage rockr, ..nd seas of sii-ow that 
shine, 
Between interminable tracts of pine, 
Within a temple stands an awful shrine, 
By an uncertain lic^ht revealed, that falls 
On the mute lma;:::;e and the troubled walls. 
Oil ! give not me tliat eye of hard disdain 
riiat views, undimmed, Einsiedlen's * 

wretched fane. 
VVhiJj ghastly faces through the gloom ap- 
pear, 
Abortive joy, and hope that works in fear ; 
While prayer contends with silenced agony, 
Surely in other thoughts contempt may die. 
If the sad grave of human ignorance bear 
One flower of hope — oh, pass and leave it 
there ! 

The tall sun, pausing on an Alpine spire, 
Flings o'er the wilderness a stream of fire : 
Now meet we other pilgrims ere the day 
Close on the remnant of their weary wav , 
While they are drawing toward the saci.^d 

floor 
Where, so they fondly think, the worm shall 

gnaw no more. 
How gayly murmur and how sweetly taste 
The fountains reared for them amid tiie 

waste ! 
Their tliirst they slake : — they vv'ash their 

toil worn feet, 
And some with tears of joy each ollur 

greet. 
Yes, 1 must see you when ye first behold 
Those holy turrets tipped with evening 

gold, 
In tliat glad moment will for you a sigh 
Be heaved, of charitable sympathy ; 
In that glad moment when your hands are 

prest 
In mute devotion on the thankful breast ! 

Last, let us turn to Chamouny that shields 
Witii rocks and gloomy woods her fertile 

fields : 
Five streams of ice amid her cots descend, 
And with wild flowers and blooming or- 
chards blend : — 
A scene more fair than what the Grecian 

feigns 
Of purple lights and ever-vernal plains ; 
Here ail the seasons revel hand in hand : 

* This shrine is resorted to, from a hope of 
relief, by niultitudcs, from every corner of tlie 
C:Uliolic world, laboring under meutal or bodily 
»ffiictiuns. 



'Mid lawns and shades by breezy rivulets 
fanned, 

They sport beneath that mountain's match- 
less height 

That holds no commerce with the summer 
night. 

From age to age, throughout his lonely 
bounds 

The crash of ruin fitfully resounds ; 

Appalling havoc ! but serene his brow, 

Where daylight lingers on perpetual snow ; 

Glitter the stars above, and all is black 
below. 

What marvel then if many a Wanderer 
sigh, 
While roars the sullen Arve in anger by, 
That not for thy reward, unrivalled Vale ! 
Waves the ripe harvest in the autumnal 

gale ; 
That thou, the slave of slaves, are doomed 

to pine 
And droop, while no Italian arts are thine, 
To soothe or cheer, to soften or retine. 
Hail Freedom! whether it was mine to 

strav, 
With sill ill winds whistling round my lone- 
ly way, 
On the bleak sides of Cumbria's heath-clad 

moors, 
Or where dark sea-weed lashes Scotland's 

shores ; 
To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breath- 
ing rose, 
And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows ; 
Still have 1 found, where Tyranny prevails, 
That virtue languishes and pleasure fails, 
While the remotest hamlets blessings share 
In thy loved presence known, and only 

there ; 
/ArtrZ-blessings — outward treasures too 

whicli the eye 
Of the sun peeping through the clouds can 

spy, 
And every passing breeze will testify. 
There, to the porch, belike with jasmine 

bound 
Or woodbine wreaths, a smoother path is 

wound ; 
The housewife there a brighter garden sees, 
Where hum on busier wing her happy bees; 
On infant cheeks there fresher roses blow ; 
And gray-haired men look up with livelier 

brow,— [rest ; 

To greet the traveller needing food and 
Housed for the nightj or but a half-hour't 

guest, 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



31 



Anl oil, fair France! though now the 

traveller sees 
Thy tiuee-striped banner fluctuate on the 

breeze ; 
Though martial songs have banished songs 

of love, 
And nightingales desert the village grove, 
Scared by the fife and rumbling drum's 

alarms, 
And the short thunder, and the flash of 

arms ; 
That cease noi .-"ill night falls, when fds and 

nigh 
Sole sound, the Sourd * prylongs his mourn- 
ful cry I 
■ — Yet, hast thou fom d that Freedom 

spreads her power 
Beyond the cottage-he'srth, the cottage-door; 
All nature smiles, i/jd owns beneath her 

eyes 
Her fields peculiar- And peculiar skies. 
Yes, as I roamed where Loiret's waters 

glide 
Through rustlir/' aspens heard from side to 

side, 
When from Oc «ber clouds a milder light 
Fell where the /jJue flood rippled into white ; 
Methought fnc k\ every cot the watchful bird 
Crowed witV ear-piercing power till then 

unlieard , 
Each ciackir g mill, that broke the murmur- 
ing str< Ams, 
Rucked tlv charmed thought in inore de- 

ligiitfi / dreams ; 
Chasing t/ ose pleasant dreams, the falling 

leaf 
Awoke a .ainter sense of moral grief ; 
'i'lie mea( ured echo of the distant flail 
Wountl r I more welcome cadence down the 

vale ; 
With nil re majestic course the water rolled. 
And rip'; iiing foliage shone with richer gold. 
— Hut / )es ;irc gathering — Liberty must 

rai i ;, 
Rod on lie hills her beacon's far-seen blaze ; 
Must 111 the tocsin ring from tower to 

to\; M- !— 
Nearer nd nearer comes the trying hour ! 
Rejoice, brave Land, though pride's per- 

ver I'd ire 
Rouse '» tU's own aid, and wrap thy fields in 

fire ; 



• An in ect so called, which emits a short, 
melanchol . ci v, heard at the close of the sum- 
mer evenii «-. on the banks of ti»e Loire. 



Lc, from the flames a great and gloriou* 

birth ; 
As if a new-made heaven were hailing a new 

earth ! 
— All cannot be : the promise is too fair 
For creatures doomed to breathe terrestrial 

air: 
Yet not for this will sober reason frown 
Upon that promise, nor the hope disown ; 
She knows that only from high aims ensue 
Rich guerdons, and to them alone are due. 

Great God ! by whom the strifes of men 
are weighed 
In an impartial balance, give thine aid 
To the just cause ; and oh, ! do thou pre- 
side 
Over the mighty stream now spreading wide : 
So shall its waters, from the heavens sup- 
plied 
In copious showers, from earth by whole^ 

some springs. 
Brood o'er the long-parched lands with Nile- 
like wings! 
And grant that every sceptred child of clay 
Who cries presumptuous, " Here the flood 

shall stay,'' 
May in its progress see thy guiding hand. 
And cease the acknowledged purpose to 

withstand; 
Or, swept in anger from the insulted shore, 
Sink with his servile bands, to rise no more ! 

Tonight, my Friend, within this humble 
cot 
Be scorn and fear and hope alike forgot 
In timely sleep ; and when, at break of day. 
On the tall peaks the glistening sunbeams 

play, 
With a light heart our course we may renew. 
The first whose footsteps print Ihe moun- 
tain dew. 
1791, 1792. 



VII. 

LINES 



Left upon a Scat in a Yew tree, which 
stands near the lake of Esthwaite, on a 
desolate part of the shore, commanding a 
beautiful prospect. 
Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew- 
tree stands 
Vax from all human dwelling : what if herft 
No si)arkrmg rivuk-t spread the verdant 
herb ? 



32 



POEMS WRITTEN IiV YOVTH. 



What if the bee love not these barren 

boughs ? 
Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling 
waves, [mind 

That break against the shore, shall lull thy 
l\y one soft impulse saved from vacancy. 

• Who he was 

That piled these stones and with the mossy 

sod 
First covered, and here taught this aged 

Tree 
With its dark arms to form a circling 

bower, 
I well remember — He was one who owned 
No common soul. In youth by science 

nursed. 
And led by nature into a wild scene 
Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth 
A favored IJeing, knowing no desire 
Which genius did not hallow ; 'gainst the 

taint 
Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, 
And scorn, — agains* all enemies prepared. 
All but neglect. The world, for so it 

thought. 
Owed him no service ; wherefore he at 

once 
With indignation turned himself away. 
And with the food of pride sustained his 

soul 
In solitude. — Stranger ! these gloomy 

boughs 
Had charms for him ; and here he loved to 

sit. 
His only visitants a straggling sheep, 
The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper : 
And on these barren rocks, with fern and 

heath. 
And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er. 
Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour 
A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here 
An emblem of his own unfruitful hfe : 
And, hfting up his head, he then would 

gaze 
On the more distant scene, — how lovely 'tis 
Thou seest,— and he would gaze till it be- 
came 
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain 
The beauty, still more beauteous ! Nor, 

that time, 
W'hen nature had subdued him to herself. 
Would he forget those Beings to whose 

minds 
Warm from the labors of benevolence 
The world, and human life, appeared a 
scene 



Of kindred loveliness : then he would sigh, 
Inly disturbed, to think that others felt 
What he must never feel : and so, lost Man I 
On visionary views would fancy feed, 
Till his eye streamed with tears. In thi« 

deep vale 
He died, — this seat is only monument. 

If Thou be one whose heart the holy 

forms 
Of young imagination have kept pure, 
Stranger ! henceforth be warned, and kno^^ 

that pride, 
Howe'er disguised in its own majesty. 
Is littleness ; that he who feels contempt 
For any living thing, hath faculties 
Which he has never used ; that thought 

with him 
Is in its infancy. The man whose eye 
Is ever on himself doth look on one, 
The least of Nature's works, one who might 

move 
The wise man to that scorn which wisdom 

holds 
Unlawful, ever. O be wiser. Thou ! 
Instructed that true knowledge leads to 

love ; 
True dign.ty abides with him alone 
Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, 
Can still suspect, and still revere himself, 
In lowliness of heart. 
1795- 



v:ii. 
GUILT AND SORROW; 

OR, INCIDENTS UPON SALISBURY PLAIN 

ADVERTISEMENT, 

PREFIXED TO THE FIRST EDITION OF 
THIS POEM, PUBLISHED IN 1842. 

Not less than one-third of the following 
poem, though it has from time to time been 
altered in the expression, was published so 
far back as the year 1798, under the title ol 
" The Female Vagrant." The extract is of 
such length that an apology seems to be re- 
quired for reprinting it here : but it was 
necessary to restore it to its original posi- 
tion, or the rest would have been unintelli- 
gible. The v/hole was written before the 
close of the year 1794, and I will detail, 
rather as a matter of literary biography than 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



II 



for any other reason, the circumstances 
under which it was produced. 

During the latter part of the summer of 
1793, 'living passed a month in the Isle of 
Wight, in view of the fleet whicli was then 
prejiaring for sea off Portsmouth at the 
commencement of the war, I left the place 
with melanclioly forebodings. The Ameri- 
can war was still fresh in memory. The 
struggle which was beginning, and which 
many thought would be brought to a speedy 
Close by the irresistible arms of Great Britain 
Ov^mg added to those of the allies, I was as- 
sured in my own mind would be of long 
continuance, and productive of distress and 
misery beyond all possible calculation. This 
conviction was pressed upon me by having 
been a witness, during a long residence in 
revolutionary France, of the spirit which 
prevailed in that country. After leaving the 
Isle of Wight, I spent two days in wandering 
on foot over Salisbury Plain, which, though 
cultivation was (hen widely spread through 
parts of it, had upon the whole a still more 
impressive appearance than it now retains. 

The monuments and traces of antiquity, 
scattered in abundance over that region, led 
me unavoidably to compare what we know 
or guess of those remote times with certain 
aspects of modern society, and with calam- 
ities, principally those consequent upon 
war, to which, more than other classes of 
men, the poor are subject. In those re- 
flections, joined .with particular facts that 
had come to my knowledge, the following 
stanzas originated. 

In conclusion, to obviate some distraction 
in the minds of those who are well acquaint- 
ed with Salisbury Plain, it may be proper to 
say, that of the features described as belong- 
ing to it, one or two are taken from other 
desolate parts of England. 



A Traveller on the skirt of Sarum's 

Plain 
Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare ; 
Stooping his gait, but not as if to gain 
Help from the staff he bore ; for mien and air 
Were hardy, though his checks seemed worn 

with care, 
5'oth of the ^ime to come, and time long fled : 
Down fell iK straggling locks his thin gray 

hair ; 
A coat he wore of military red 
But faded, and stuck o'er with many a patch 

and shred. 



While thus he journeyed, step by step led on. 
He saw and passed a stately inn, full sure 
That welcome in such a house for him wr» 

none. 
No board inscribed the needy to allure 
Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old and 

poor 
And desolate, " Here you will find a friend I " 
The pendent grapes glittered above the 

door ; — 
On he must pace, perchance 'till night de- 
scend, 
Where'er the dreary roads their bare white 

hncs extend. 

in. 
The gathering clouds grew red with stormy 

fire, 
In streaks diverging wide and mounting high; 
That inn he long had passed ; the distant 

spire. 
Which oft .as he looked back had fixed his 

eye. 
Was lost, though still lie looked, in the 

blank sky. 
Perplexed and comfortless he gazed around 
And scarce could any trace of man descry, 
Save cornfields stretched and stretching 

without bound ; 
But where the sower dwelt was nowhcr« to 

be found. 

IV. 

No tree was there, no meadow's pleasant 

green. 
No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear ; 
Long files of corn-stacks here and there 

were seen, 
But not one dwelling-place his heart to cheer. 
Some laborer, thought he, may perchance bo 

near ; 
.And so he sent a feeble shout — in vain ; 
No voice made answer, he could only hear 
Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain. 
Or whistling thro' thin grass along the un- 

furrowed plain. 

V. 

Long had he fancied each successive slope 

Concealed some cottage, whither ht might 
turn 

And rest; but now along heaven's darken- 
ing cope 

The crows rushed by in eddies, homeward 
borne. 

Thus warned, he sought some shepheitfi 
spreading thorn 



34 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



Or hovel from the storm to shield his head, 

But sought in vain ; for now, all wild, for- 
lorn, 

And vacant, a huge waste around him spread; 

Tiie wet cold ground, he feared, must be 
his only bed. 

VI. 

And be it so — for to the chill night shower 
And the sharp wind his head he oft hath 

bared ; 
A sailor he, who many a wretched hour 
Hath told : for, landing after labor hard, 
Full long endured in hope of just reward, 
He to an arm6d fleet was forced away 
liy seamen, who perhaps themselves had 

shared 
A like fate ; was hurried off, a helpless prey, 
'Gainst all that in his heart, or theirs per- 
haps, said nay. 



For years the work of carnage did not cease, 
And death's dire aspect daily he surveyed. 
Death's minister ; then came his glad release. 
And hope returned, and pleasure fondly 

made 
Her dwelling in his dreams. By Fancy's aid 
The happy husband flies, his arms to throw 
Round his wife's neck ; the prize of victory 

laid 
In her full lap, he sees such sweet tears flow 
As if thenceforth nor pain nor trouble she 

could know. 

VIII. 

Vain liope ! for fraud took all that he had 

earned. 
The lion roars and gluts his tawny brood 
Even in the desert's heart ; but he, returned. 
Bears not to those he loves their needful 

food. 
His home approaching, but in such a mood 
That from his sight his children might have 

run. 
He met a traveller, roblied him, shed his 

blood ; 
And when the miserable work was done 
He fled, a vagrant since, the murderer's fate 

to shun. 



From that day forth no place to him could be 
So lonely, but that thence might come a pang 
Brought from without to inward misery. 
Now, as he plodded on, with sullen clang 
A sound of chains along the desert rang ; 



He looked, and saw upon a gibbet high 
A luiman body that in irons swang, 
Uplifted by the tempest whirling by; 
And, hovering, round often it did a raven f!j( 



It was a spectacle which none might view, 
In spot so savage, but with shuddering p;iin : 
Nor only did for him at once renew 
All he had feared from man, but rouscil .t 

train 
Of the mind's phantoms, horrible as vain. 
The stones, as if to cover him from day, 
Rolled at his back along the living jilain ; 
He fell, and without sense or motion l.ty , 
But, when the trance was gone, fecbl) pur 

sued his way. 



As one whose brain habitual phrensv fims 
Owes to the fit in which his soul lialli to. .id 
Profounder quiet, when the fit retires. 
Even so the diie phantasnia wlucii li.id 

crossed 
His sense, in sudden vacancy quite Irst. 
Left his mind still as a deep evening siiLai;j 
Nor, if accosted now, in tliought eniiiosscd, 
Moody, or inly troubled, would lie seem 
To traveller who might talk on any casual 

theme. 



Hurtle the clouds in deeper darkniss juKd, 
Gone is the raven timely rest to seek , 
He seemed the oniy creature in the wild 
On whom the elements their rage mi-ht 

wreak ; 
Save that the bustard, or those regions bleak 
Shy tenant, seeing by the uncertain lii,dit 
A man there wandering, gave a mournful 

shriek, 
And half rpon the ground, with strange 

affright, 
Forced hard against the wind a thick un- 

wieldly flight. 

XIII. 

All, all was cheerless to the horizon's bound , 
The weary eye — which, whcresoe'er it strays, 
Marks nothing but the red sun's setting 

round. 
Or on the earth strange lines, in former days 
Left by gigantic arms— at length surveys 
What seems an antique castle spreading wicJ^ 
Hoary and naked are its walls, and raise 



FORMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



Their brow sublime : in shelter there to 

bide 
He turned, while rain poured down smoking 

on every side. 

XIV. 

Pile of Stone-hengc ! so proud to hint yet 

keep 
Thy secrets, thou that lov'st to stand and 

hear 
The Plain resounding to the whirlwind's 

sweep, 
Inmate of lonesome Nature's endless year ; 
Even if thou saw'st the giant wicker rear 
For sacrifice its throngs of living men. 
Before thy face did ever wretch appear, 
Who in his heart had groaned with deadlier 

pain 
Than he who, tempest-driven, thy shelter 

row would gain ? 



Within that fabric of mysterious form, 
Winds met in conflict, each by turns su- 
preme ; 
And, from the perilous ground dislodged, 

through storm 
And rain he wildcred on, no moon to stream 
From gulf of parting clouds one friendly 

beam. 
Nor any friendly sound his footsteps led ; 
Once did the lightning's faint disastrous 

gleam 
Disclose a naked guide-post's double head, 
Sight which tho' lost at once a gleam of 
pleasure shed. 

XVI. 

No swmging sign-board creaked from cottage 
elm 

To stay his steps with faintness overcome ; 

*Twas dark and void as ocean's watery 
realm 

Roaring with storms beneath night's star- 
less gloom ; 

No gypsy cower'd o'er fire of furze or broom ; 

No laborer watched his red kiln glaring 
bright. 

Nor taper glimmered dim from sick man's 
room ; 

Along the waste no line of mournful light 

From lamp of lonely toll-gate streamed 
athwart the night. 

XVII. 

At length, though hid in clouds, the moon 

arose ; 
The downs were visible, — and now revealed 



A structure stands, which two bare slope* 

enclose. 
It was a spot, where, ancient vows fulfilled, 
Kind pious hands did to the Virgin build 
A lonely Spital, the belated swain 
From the night terrors of that wasto to 

shield : 
But there no human being could remain, 
And now the walls are named the " Dead 

House" of the plain. 

XVIIl. 

Though he had little cause to love the abode 

Of man, or covet sight of mortal face. 

Yet when faint beams of light that ruin 

showed, 
How glad he was at length to find some 

trace 
Of human shelter in that dreary place. 
Till to his flock the early shepherd goes, 
Here shall much-needed sleep his frame 

embrace. 
In a dry nook where fern the floor bestrows 
He lays his stiffened limbs, — his eyes begin 

to close ; 

XIX. 

When hearing a deep sigh, that seemed to 

come 
From one who mourned in sleep, he raised 

his head. 
And saw a woman in the naked room 
Outstretched, and turning on a restless bed . 
The moon a wan dead light around her shed. 
He waked her — spake in tone that would not 

fail. 
He hoped, to calm her mind ; but ill he sped, 
For of that ruin she had heard a tale 
Which now with freezmg thoughts did all 

her powers assail ; 

XX. 

Had heard of one who, forced from storms 

to shroud. 
Felt the loose walls of his decayed Retreat 
Rock to incessant neighings shrill and loud. 
While his horse pawed the floor with furious 

heat ; 
Till on a stone, that sparkled to his feet, 
Struck, and still struck again, the troubled 

horse : 
The man half raised the stone with pain and 

sweat. 
Half raised, for well his arm might lose its 

force, 
Disclosing the grim head of a late murdered 

corse. 



50 



POEMS WRITTEN- IJV YOUTH. 



XXI. 



Such tale of this lone mansion she had 
learned, 

And, wlien that shape, with eyes in sleep 
half drowned, 

Oy the moon's sullen lamp she first dis- 
cerned, 

Cold stony horror all her senses bound. 

llcr he addressed in words of cheering 
sound ; 

Recovering heart, hkc answer did slie make ; 

And well it was that, of the corse there 
found, 

In converse that ensued she nothing spake ; 

Shj knew not wliat dire pangs in him sucli 
talc could wake, 

XXII. 

But soon his voice and words of kind int .t 
Banished that dismal tiiouglit ; and now the 

wind 
In fainter howhngs told its rage was spent : 
Meanwhile discourse ensued of various kind, 
Which by degrees a confidence of mind 
And nuitunl interest failed not to create 
And, to a natural sympatliy resigned. 
In that forcsaken building where they sate 
Tiie Woman thus retraced her own untow- 
ard fate. 

XXIII. 

•* By Dcrwent's side my father dwelt — a 

man 
Of virtuous life, by pious parents bred; 
And I believe that, soon as I began 
To lisp, lie madi, me kneel beside my bed, 
And in his hearing there my prayers I said ; 
And afterwards, by my good father taught, 
I read, and loved the books in which 1 read ; 
For books in every neighboring house I 

sought. 
And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure 

brought. 

XXIV. 

A little croft we owned — a plot of corn, 

A garden stored with peas, and mint, and 

thyme, 
And flowers for posies, oft on Sunday morn 
Vluckcd while the church bells rang their 

earliest chime. 
Can I forget our freaks at slicaring time ! 

hen's rich 

scarce espied 
The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime ; 
The swans that with white chests upreared 

in pride 
Kushing and racing came to meet me at 

the water-side/ 



The staff I well remember which upbore 
The bending body of my active sire ; 
His seat beneath the honied sycamore 
Where the bees hummed, and chair by 

winter fire ; 
When market-morning came, the neat attire 
With which, though bent on haste, myself J. 

decked : ' 

Our watchful house-dog, that would tease 

and tire 
The stranger till its barking-fit I checked ; 
The red-breast, known for years, whicli al 

my casement pecked. 



The suns of twenty summers danced along, — 
Too little marked how fast they rolled away ; 
But, through severe mischance and cruel 

wrong, 
My father's substance fell into decay . 
Wo toiled and struggled, hoping for a day 
When Fortune miglit put on a kinder look^ 
But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they ; 
He from his old hereditary nook 
Must part; the summons came; -our final 

leave we took. 

XXVII. 

It was .indeed a miserable hour 

Wiien, from the last hill-top, my sire sur 

veyed, 
Peering above the trees, the steeple tower 
That on his marriage-day sweet music madel 
Till then, he hoped his iDones might there be 

laid 
Close by my mother in their native bowers ; 
Bidding me trust in God, he stood and 

prayed ; — 
I could not pray : — through tears that fell in 

showers 
Glimmered our dear-loved home, alas ! no 

longer ours I 

XXVIII, 

There was a Youth whom I had loved so 
long. 

That when I loved him not I cannot .say : 

'Mid the green mountains many a thought- 
less song 

We two had sung, like gla Isi-me birds in 
May ; 

When we began to tire of childish play, 

We seemed still more and more to prize 
. each other ; 

We talked of marriage and our marriage 
dayi 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



Vl 



And I in truth did love him like a brother, 
For never could 1 hope to meet with such 
another. 

XXIX 

Two years were passed since to a distant 

town 
He had repaired to ply a gainful trade : 
V/hat tears of bitter grief, tili then unknown ! 
What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed I 
To him we turned: — we had no other aid: 
Like one revived, upon his neck I wept ; 
And her whom he had loved in joy, he said. 
He well could love in grief , his faith he 

kept ; 
And in a quiet home once more my father 

slept. 



We lived in peace and comfort ; and were 

blest 
With daily bread, by constant toil supplied. 
Three lovely babes had lain upon my breast : 
And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I 

sighed, 
\nd knew not why. My happy father died, 
iVhen threatened war reduced the children's 

meal : 
Thrice happy ! that for him the grave could 

hide 
The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent 

wheel, 
And tears that flowed for ills which patience 

might not heal. 



'Twas a hard change ; an evil time was come ; 
We had no hope, and no relief could gain : 
But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum 
Beat round to clear the streets of want and 

pain. 
My husband's arms now only serve to strain 
Mc and his cliildren hungering in his view ; 
In such dismay my prayers and tears were 

vain : 
To join those miserable men he flew. 
And now to the sea-coast, with numbers 

more, we drew. 



There were we long neglected, and we bore 
Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weighed ; 
Green fields before us, and our native shore. 
We breathed a pestilential air, that made 
Ravage for which no knell was heard. Wo 

prayed 
For our departure ; wished and wished — 

nor knew, 



'Mid that long sickness and those hopes 

delayed, 
That happier days we never more must view 
The parting signal streamed— at last tlic 

land withdrew. 

XXXIII. 

But the calm summer season now was past. 
On as we drove, the equinoctial deep 
Ran mountain high before the howling blast, 
And many perished in the whirlwind's 

sweep. 
We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep, 
Untaught that soon such anguish must 

ensue, 
Our hope such harvest of affliction reap, 
That we the mercy of the waves should rue : 
We reach the western world, a poor devoted 

crew. 

XXXIV. 

The pains and plagues that on our heads 

came down. 
Disease and fnmine, agony and fear, 
In wood or wilderness, in camp or town. 
It would unman the firmest heart to hear. 
All ])erished — all in one remorseless year, 
Husband and children ! one by one, by 

sword 
And ravenous plague, all perished: every 

tear 
Dried up, despairing, desolate, on Iward 
A British ship I waked, as from a trance 

restored." 

XXXV. 

Here paused she of all present thought 

forlorn, 
Nor voice, nor sound, that moment's pain 

expressed. 
Yet nature with excess of grief o'erbom?, 
From her full eyes their watery load re- 
leased. 
He too was mute ; and, ere her weepmg 

ceased. 
He rose, and to the ruin's portal went, 
And saw the dawn opening the silvery east 
With rays of promise, north and southward 

sent ; 
And soon with crimson fire kindled the 
firmament. 

XXXVI. 

" O come," he cried, " come, after weary 

night 
Of such rough storm, this happy change to 

view." 
So forth she came, and eastward looked 

the sight 



38 



POEMS tVPITTEJV IN YOUTB. 



Over her brow like dawn of gladness threw ; 
Upon her cheek, to which its youthful hue 
Seenved to return, dried the last hngering 

tear, 
And from her grateful heart a fresh one 

drew : 
The whilst her comrade to her pensive cheer 
leuipered fit words of hope; and the lark 

V arbled near. 



They locked and saw a lengthening road, 

and wain 
That rang down a bare slope not far remote : 
The barrows glistered bright with drops of 

rain, 
Wixistied the waggoner with merry note, 
Tl/c cock far off sounded his clarion throat ; 
Bui town, or farm, or hamlet, none they 

viewed, 
Only were told there stood a lonely cot 
A long mile thence. While thither they 

pursued 
Their way, the Woman thus her mournful 

tale renewed. 

XXXVIII. 

' Peaceful as this immeasurable plain. 

Is now, by beams of dawning light imprest. 

In the calm sunshine slept the glittering 

main ; 
The very ocean hath its hour of rest. 
I too forgot the heavings of my breast. 
How quiet 'round me ship and ocean were ! 
As quiet all within me. 1 was blest, 
And looked, and fed upon the silent air 
Until It seemed to bring a joy to my despair. 



Ah ! how unlike those late terrific sleeps. 

And gvoans that rage of racking famine 
spoke ; 

The unburied dead that lay in festering 
heaps, 

7'he breathing pestilence that rose like 
smoke. 

The shriek that from the distant battle 
broke, 

The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid 
host 

Driven by the bomb's incessant thunder- 
stroke 

To loathsome vault*, where heart-sick an- 
guish tossed, 

Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost I 



Some mighty gulf of separation past, 

I seemed transported to another world ; 

A thought resigned with pain, when from 

the mast 
The impatient mariner the sail unfurled, 
And, whistling, called the wind that hardly 

curled 
The silent sea. From the sweet thought* 

of home 
And from all hope I was forever hurled. 
For me — farthest from earthly port to roam 
Was best, could I but shun the spot where 

man might come. 

XLI. 

And oft I thought (my fancy was so strong) 
That I, at last, a resting-place had found: 
' Htfj will 1 dwell,' said I, ' my whole life 

long. 
Roaming the illimitable waters round ; 
Here will I live, of all but heaven disowned, 
And end my days upon the peaceful flood.'— 
To break my dream the vessel reached its 

bound ; 
And homeless near a thousand homes I 

stood, 
And near a thousand tables pined and 

wanted food. 

XLH. 
No help T sought ; in sorrow turned adrift. 
Was hopeless, as if cast on some bare rock ; 
Nor morsel to my nicuth that day did lift. 
Nor raised my hand at any door to knock. 
I lay where, with his drowsy mates, the cock 
From the cross-timber of an out-house hung . 
Dismally tolled, that night, the city clock ! 
At morn my sick lieart hunger scarcely 

stung, 
Nor to the beggar's language could I fit my 

tongue 

XLIII. 

So passed a second day \ and, when the 

third 
Was come, I tried in vain the crowd's resort 
— In deep despair, by fiightful wishes stirred, 
Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort ; 
There, pains which nature could no more 

support, 
With blindness hnked, did on my vitals fall ; 
And, after many interruptions short 
Of hideous sense, I sank, nor step could 

crawl ; 
Unsought for was the help that did my lifo 

recall. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



XLIV. 
Borne to a hospital, I lay with brain 
Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory ; 
[ head my neighbors m their beds complain 
Of many things which never troubled me-- 
Of teet still bustling round with busy glee, 
Ot looks where common kindness had no 

part, 
Of service done with cold formality, 
Fretting the fever round the languid heart, 
And groans which, as they said, might make 

a dead man start. 

XLV. 

These things just served to stir the slumber- 
ing sense. 

Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. 

With strength did memory return , and, 
thence 

Dismissed, again on oj^cn day I gazed, 

At liouses,men, and common light, amazed. 

f he 'anes 1 sought, and, as the sun retired, 

Came where beneath the trees a faggot 
blazed ; 

The travellers saw me weep, my fate in- 
quired, 

And gave me food — and rest, more welcome, 
more desired. 



Rough potters seemed they, trading soberly 
With panniered asses diiven from door to 

door ; 
But life of happier son act forth to me, 
And other joys my fancy to allure— 
The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor 
In barn uplighted; and companions boon. 
Well met from far with revelry secure 
Among the forest glades, while jocund June 
Rolled fast along the sky his warm and 

genial uioon, 

XLVII. 

But ill they suited me — those journeys dark 
O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to 

hatch ! 
To charm the surly house-dog's faithful 

bark, 
Or liang on tip-toe at the lifted latch. 
The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue 

match, 
The blp.ck disguise, the warning whistle 

shrill, 
And ear stil' bu',y on its nightly watch, 
Were not for me. brought up in notiuns; ill 
Besides, on gnpf<^ so fresh my thoughts vvcr^ 

blooding siiu. 



XLVIII. 

What could I do, unaided and unblest ? 
My father I gone was every friend of thine; 
And kindred of dead husband are at best 
Small help, and, after marriage such as 

mine, 
With little kindness would to me incline 
Nor was 1 then for toil or service fit; 
My deep-drawn sighs no effort could confine ; 
In open air lorgetful would I sit 
Whole hours, with idle arms in moping 

sorrow knit. 

XLIX. 

The roads I paced, 1 loitered through the 

fields ; 
Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused. 
Trusted my life to what chance bounty 

yields, 
Now coldly given, now utterly refused. 
The ground 1 for my bed have often used 
But what afflicts my peace with keene: 

ruth 
Is that I have my inner self abused, 
Foregone the home delight of constant trutl 
And clear and open st ul, so prized in fear- 
less youth. 



Through tears the rising sun I oft have 

viewed, 
Through tears have seen him towards that 

world descend 
Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude : 
Three years a wandeier now my course 1 

bend — 
Oh ! tell me whither — fcT no earthly friend 
Have 1." — She ceased, and weeping tunu-d 

away ; 
As if because her tale was at an end. 
She wept ; because she had no more to sav 
Of that perpetual weight which on her spn it 

lay. 

M. 

True sympathy the .Sailor's looks expressed, 
His looks — for pondering he was mute tht 

while. 
Of social Order's care for wretchedness, 
Of Time's sure help to calm and recoiuili-, 
Joy's second spring and Hope's long-tn-.i.s 

ured smile, 
'Twasnot iox him to speak — a man so tried. 
Yet, to relieve her heart, in friendly style 
Proverbial words of comfort he applied, 
And not in vain, while they went pacing side 

by side. 



40 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH 



Ere long, from lieaps of turf, before then 

sight, 
Together smoking in the sun's slant beam, 
Rise various wreaths tliat into one unite 
VVhirh high and higher mounts with silver 

gleam : 
Fair spectacle, — but instantly a scream 
Thence bursting shrill did all remark pre- 
vent; 
They paused, and heard a hoarser voice 

blaspheme. 
And female cries. Their course they thither 

bent, 
And met a man who fownied with anger 
vehement. 

LIII. 

A woman stood with quivering lips and 

pale, 
And, pointing to a little child that lay 
Stretched on the groum!, began a piteous 

tale; 
How in a simple freak of thoughtless play 
He had provoked his father, who straight- 
way, 
As if each blow were deadlier than the last, 
Struck the poor innocent. Pallid with dis- 
may 
The Soldier's Widow heard and stood 

aghast ; 
And stern looks on the man her gray-haired 
Ccmrado cast. 



His voice with indignation rising high 

Such further deed in manhood's name for- 
bade ; 

The peasant, wild in passion, made reply 

With bitter insult and revilings sad ; 

Asked him in scorn what business there he 
had; 

What kind of plunder he was hunting now ; 

The gallows would one day of him be 
glad ;— 

Though inward anguish damped the Sailor's 
brow, 

y ot calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant 
would allow. 



Softly he stroked the child, wlio lay out- 
stretched 

With face to earth ; and, as tlic boy turned 
round 

His battered head, a groan the Sailor 
fetched 



As if he saw — there and upon that ground — 
Strange repetition of the deadly wound 
He had himself inflicted. Through his 

brain 
At once the griding iron passage found ; 
Deluge of tender thoughts then rush.ed 

amain. 
Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear 

restrain. 

LVI. 

Within himself he said — What hearts have 
we I 

The blessing this a father gives his child ! 

Yet happy thou, poor boy 1 comjured with 
me, 

Suffering, not doing ill — fate far more mild. 

The stranger's looks and tears of wrath be- 
guiled 

Tlie father, and relenting thouglit-^ i-woke . 

He kissed his son — so all was rocnncilcd. 

Then, with a voice which inward liouiilc 
broke 

Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them be- 
spoke. 

LVII. 

" Bad IS the world, and Lard is t,he world's 

law 
Even for the man who wears the warmest 

fleece ; 
Much need have ye that time more closely 

draw 
The bond of nature, all unkiiidness cease, 
And that among so few there still be pjace- 
Else can ye hope but writh such numerous 

foes 
Your pains shall ever with your years in- 
crease ? '•' — 
While from his heart the appropriate lesson 

flows, 
A correspondent calm stole gently o'er his 

woes 

LVIII. 

Forthwith the pair passed on ; and down 
they look 

Into a narrow valley's pleasant scene ; 

Where wreaths of vapor tracked a winding 
brook, 

That babbled on through groves and 
meadows green ; 

A low-roofed house peeped out the trees be- 
tween ; 

The dripping groves resound with cheerfuj 
lays. 

And melancholy lowings interven* 



POEMS WRITTEN IN" YOUTH. 



41 



Of scattered herds, that in the meadow 

graze, 
Some amid lingering shade, some touched 

by the sun's rays. 



They saw and heard, and, winding with the 

road 
Down a thick wood, they dropt into the 

vale ; 
Comfort by prouder mansions unbestowed 
Their wearied frames, she hoped, would soon 

regale. 
Ere long they reached that cottage in the 

dale : 
It was a rustic inn ; — the board was spread. 
The milk-maid followed with her brimming 

pail, 
And lustily the master carved the bread. 
Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in 

comfort fed. 

LX. 

Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, 

must part ; 
Wanderers whose coi;rse no longer now 

agrees. 
She rose and bade farewell ! and, while her 

heart 
Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow 

ease. 
She left him there ; for, clustering lound 

his knees. 
With his oak-staff the cottage children 

played ; 
And soon she reached a spot o'erhung with 

trees 
And banks of ragged earth ; beneath the 

shade 
Across the pebbly road a little runnel strayed. 

LXI. 

A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood : 
Checkering the canvas roof the sunbeams 

shone. 
She saw the carman bend to scoop the flood 
As the wain fronted her, — wherein lay one, 
A pale-faced Woman, in disease far gone. 
The carman wet her lips as well behoved ; 
Bed under her leat< body there was none, 
Though even to die near one she most had 

loved 
She could not of herself those wasted limbs 

have moved. 

Lxn. 
The Sailor's Widow learned with honest 

pain, 
And horaefelt force of sympathy sincere, 



Why thus that worn-out wretch must there 

sustain 
The jolting road and morning air severe. 
The wain pursued its way ; and following 

near 
In pure compassion she her steps retrace 
Far as the cottage. " A sad sight is here,'' 
She cried aloud ; and forth ran out in haste 
The friends whom she had left but a few 

minutes past. 

LXIII. 

While to the door with eager speed they ran, 
From her bare straw the Woman half up« 

raised 
Her bony visage — gaunt and deadly wan ; 
No pity askmg, on the group she gazed 
With a dim eye, distracted and amazed ; 
Then sank upon her straw with feeble moan. 
Fervently cried the housewife — " God lie 

praised, 
I have a house that I can call my own ; 
Nor shall she perish there, untended and 

alone ! " 

LXIV. 

So in they bear her to the chimney seat, 
And busily, though yet with fear, untie 
Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet 
And chafe her temples, careful hands apply. 
Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh 
She strove, and not in vain,, her head lo 

rear ; 
Then said — " I thank you all ; if I must die, 
The God in heaven my prayers for you will 

hoar ; 
Till now I did not think my end had been 

so near. 

LXV. 

*' Barred every comfort labor could procure, 
Suffering wliat no endurance could assuage, 
1 was compelled to seek my father's door, 
Though lo'.h to be a burden on his age. 
But sickness stopped me in an early stage 
Of my sad journey ; and within the wain 
They placed me — there to end life's pil- 
grimage. 
Unless beneath your roof I may remain : 
For I shall never see my father's door again. 

LXVl. 

" My life. Heaven knows, hath long been 

burthcnsome ; 
But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek 
May my end be ! Soon will this voice be 

dumb : 
Should child of mine e'er wander hither, 

speak 



43 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTTT. 



Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek. — 
Torn from our liut, that stood beside the sea 
Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome 

creek, 
My husband served in sad captivity 
On shipboard, bound till peace or death 

should set him free. 

Lxvn. 
" A sailor's wife I knew a widow's cares, 
Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed ; 
Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily 

prayers 
Our heavenly Father granted each day's 

bread ; 
Till one was found by stroke of violence 

dead. 
Whose body near our cottage chanced to 

lie; 
A dire suspicion drove i:s from our shed ; 
In vain to find a friendly face we try, 
Nor could we live together, those poor boys 

and I ; 

LXVIII. 

*' For evil tongues made oath how on that 
day 

My husband lurked about Mie neighborhood ; 

Now he had tied, and whither none could 
say. 

And he had done the deed in the dark wood — 

Near his own home ! — but he was mild and 
good ; 

Never on earth was gentler creature seen ; 

He'd not have rol:)bed the raven of its food. 

My husband's loving kindness stood be- 
tween 

Me and all worldly harms and wrongs how- 
ever keen." 

LXIX. 

Alls! the thing she told with laboring 
breath 

The S;:ilor knew too well. That wicked- 
ness 

His hand had wrought; and when, in t!ie 
hour of death, 

Ho saw his Wife's lip move his name to 
bless 

Witli lur last words, unable to suppress 

His anguish, with his heart he ceased to 
strive ; 

And, weeping Lud in this extreme distress, 

Me cried — " Do pity me ! That thou shouldst 
live 

1 neither ask nor wish — forgive me, but for- 
give I " 



To tell the change that Voice within hw 

wrought 
Nature by sign or sound made no essay ; 
A sudden joy surprised expiring thought^ 
And every mortal pang dissolved away. 
Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay ; 
Yet still while over her the husband bent, 
A look was in her face which seemed to say, 
" Be blest ; by sight of thee from heaven 

was sent 
Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of 

content." 

LXXI. 

She slept in peace, — liiii pulses throbbed and 

stopped. 
Breathless he gazed upon her face, — then 

took 
Her hand in his, and raised it, but lx)th 

dropped, 
When on his own he cast a rueful look. 
His ears were never silent ; sleep forsook 
Ills burning eyelids^ strei-ched and stiff as 

lead ; 
All night from time to time under him shoolc 
Tlie floor as he lay shuddering on his bed ; 
And oft he groaned aloud, " O God, that I 

were dead ! " 

LXXII. 

The Soldier's Widow lingered in the cot ; 
And, when he rose, he thanked her pious 

care 
Through which his Wife, to that kind 

shelter brought. 
Died in his arms ; and with those thanks a 

prayer 
He breathed for her, and for that merciful 

pair. 
The corse interred, not one hour he remained 
Beneath their roof, but to the open air 
A burthen, now with fortitude sustained, 
He bore within a breast where dreadful 

quiet reigned. 

Lxxni. 
Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared 
For act and suffering, to the city straight 
He journeyed, and forthwith his crime de- 
clared : 
" And from your doom,'' he added, " now 

I wait, 
Nor let it linger long, the murderer's fate." 
Not ineffectual was that piteous claim : 
" O welcome sentence which will eiM^ 
though latc»" 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



43 



Hp said, " the pangs that to my conscience 

came 
Out of the deed. My trust, Saviour ! is in 

thy name ! " 

LXXIV. 

His fate was pitied. Him in iron case 
(Reader, torejive the intoleral)le tlioii£;ht) 
They hung not; - no one on his form or face 



Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought ; 
No kindred sufferer, to his death-place 

brought 
By lawless curiosity or chance, 
When into storm theeveningsky is wrought, 
Upf)n his swingi!'>'j corse an eye can glance, 
And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable 

trance. 
1793-4. 



THE BORDERERS. 



A TRAGEDY. (Composed 1795-6.) 



DRAMATIS PERSON.^. 



1 Of the Band of Borderers 



Marmaduke. 1 

OSV/ALD. 

Wallace. 

Lacv. ) 

Lennox. j 

Hekbf.rt. 

Wilfred, Servant to Marmapuke. 

Host. 



Forester, 

Elored, rt Peasant. 

feasant, PilgrimSy &*c. 



Idonea. 

Female Beggar. 
Eleanor, IVi/e to Eldrbd. 



Scene — Borders of England and Scotland. 
TiM'c—The Reign of Henry III. 
Readers already acquainted with my Poems will recop;iiizc, in the following composition, 
some eii^ht or ten linos which I have not sciupled to retain in the places where tiiey ori-^inally 
stood, "it is proper, how.'ver, to add, that tlicy would not have hcen used elsewhere, if 1 had 
oreseen the time when I niigiit be induced to publish this Tragedy. 
February z^, 1842. 



ACT I. 

Scene — Road in a Wood. 

Wallace and Lacy. 

Lacy. The troop will be impatient ; Ictus 

hie • 

Back to our post, and strip the Scottish Foray 

Of their rich Spoil, ere they recross the 

Border. 
—Pity that our young Chief will have no 

part 
In this good service. 

Wal. Rather let us grieve 

That, in the undertaking which has caused 
His absence, he hath sought, whate'er his 

aim. 
Companionship with One of crooked ways, 
From whose perverted soul can come no 

good 
To our confiding, open-hearted, Leader. 



Lacy. True ; and, rememberitig how the 
Band have proved 
That Oswald finds small favor in our sight. 
Well may we wonder he has gained such 

power 
Over our nuich-lovcd Captain. 

Wal. I have heard 

Of some dark deed to which in early life 
His passion drove him — then a Voyager 
Upon the midland Sea. You knew his 

bearing 
In Palestine? 

Lacy. Where he despised alike 

Mohammedan and Christian. But enough, 
Let us begone — the Band may else br foiled. 
VExeunt. 

Enter Marmaduke and Wili-rhd. 
Wd. Be cautious, my dear Master ( 



Mar* 



Ipercovo 



44 



POEMS JVR/TTEJV IN YOUTFT. 



That fear is likj a cloak which old men 

huddle 
About their love, as if to keep it warm. 
Wil. Nay, but I grieve that we should 
part. This Stranger, 

For such he is 

Mar. Your busy fancies, Wilfred, 

Might tempt me to a smile ; but what of 
him ? 
Wil. You know that you have saved his 

life. 
Mar. I know it. 

Wil. And that he hates you ! — Pardon 
me, perhaps 
That word was hasty. 
Mar. Fie I no more of it. 

Wil. Dear Master I gratitude's a heavy 
burden 
To a proud Soul. — Nobody loves this Os- 
wald — 
Vourself, you do not love him. 

Mar. I do more, 

I honor him. Strong feelings to his heart 
Are natural ; and from no one can be learnt 
More of man's tlioughts and ways than his 

experience 
Has given him power to teach : and then 

for courage 
And enterprise — what perils hath he shun- 
ned ? 
What obstacles hath he failed to overcome ? 
Answer tliese questions, from our common 

knowledge, 
And be at rest. 

Wil. Oh, Sir ! 

Mar. Peace, my good Wilfred ; 

Repair to Liddesdale, and tell the Band 
1 shall be with them in two days, at far 
thest. 
Wil. May He whose eye is over all pro- 
tect yoi' ! \^Exit. 

Enetr Oswald {a bunch of flouts in his 
hand.) 



Osw. This wood is rich in plants and 

curious simples. 
Mar. {lookintr at them.) The wild rose, 
and tlic poppy, and the nightshade : 
Whicl» is your favorite. Oswald .-" 

Osw. That which, while it is 

Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal — 

\LoQking forward. 
Not yet in sight! — We'll saunter her^; 

awhile ; 
They cannot mount the hill, by us unseen 



Mar. [a letter in his hand.) It is nc 

common thing when one like you 
Performs these delicate services, and there* 

fore 
I feel myself much bounden to you, Os- 
wald : 
^Tis a strange letter this I — You saw hei 

write it ? 
Os7v. And saw the tears with which sht 

blotted it. 
Mar. And nothing less would satisiy 

him 1 
Osw. No less ; 

For that another in his Child's affection 
Should hold a place, as if 'twere robbery, 
He seemed to quarrel with the very 

thought. 
Besides, I know not what "trange prejudice 
Is rooted in his mind ; this Band of ours, 
Which you've collected for the noblest 

ends, 
Along the confines of the Esk and Tweed 
To guard the Innocent — he calls us " Out' 

laws ; " 
And, for yourself, in plain terms he asserts 
This garb was taken up that indolence 
Might want no cover, and rapacity 
Be better fed. 

Mar. Ne'er may I own the heart 

That cannot feel for one helpless as he is. 
Oszv. Thou know'st me for a Man not 

easily moved, 
Yet was I grievously provoked to think 
Of what I witnessed. 

Mar. This day will suffice 

To end her wrongs. 

Osw. But if the blind Man's tale 

Should yet be true .'' 

Mar. Would it were possible I 

Did not the Soldier tell thee that himself, 
And others who survived the wreck, beheld 
The Baron Herbert perish in the waves 
Upon the coast of Cyprus.'' 

Osw. Yes, even sOj 

And I had heard the like before : in sooth 
The tale of this his quondam Barony 
Is cunningly devised ; and, on the back 
Of his forlorn appearance, could not fair 
To make the proud and vain his tributaries^ 
And stir the pulse of lazy charity. 
The seignories of Herbert are in Devon; 
Wc, neighbors of the Esk and Tweed : 'tis 

much 

The Arch-impostor 

Mar. Treat him tjently, Oswald- 

Though I have never seen his tace, nMr 

thinks, 



POEMS WRITTEN /N YOUTTf. 



45 



There cannot come a day when I shall 
cease 

To love him. I remember, when a Boy 

Ot scarcely seven years' growth, beneath 
the Ehn 

That casts its shade over our villasje scliool, 

'Twas my delight to sit and hear Idonea 

Repeat her Father's terrible adventures, 

Till all the band of play-mates wept to 
gather ; 

And that was the beginning of my love. 

And, through all converse of our later 
years, 

An image of this old Man still was pres- 
ent, 

When I had been most happy. Pardon 
me 

If this be idly spoken. 

Osiv. See, they come. 

Two Travellers ! 
Mar (/oijifs) The woman is Idonea. 
Ostv. And leading Herbert 
Mar. We must let them pass — 

This thicket will conceal us. 

[ They step aside. 

Enter Idonea, leading Herbert blind. 

/don. Dear Father, you sigh deeply ; 

ever since 
We left the willow shade by the brook-side. 
Your natural breathing has been troubled 

Her. Nay, 

You are too fearful ; yet must I confess, 
Our march ot yesterday had better suited 
A firmei step than mine. 

Idon. That dismal Moor — 

In spite of all the larks that cheered our 

path, 
J never can forgive it : but how steadily 
You paced along, when the bewildering 

moonlight 
Mocked me with many a strange fantastic 

shape ! — 
I thought the Convent never v/ould appear ; 
It seemed to move away from us : and yet, 
That you are thus the fault is mine ; for the 

air 
Was soft arid warm, no dew lay on the 

grass, 
And midway on the waste ere night had 

fallen 
I spied a Covert walled and roofed with 

sods — 
A miniature ; belike some Shepherd-boy, 
Who might have found a nothing-doing 

hour 



Heavier than work, raised it : within tha» 

hut 
We might have made a kindly bed ot 

heath, 
And thankfully there rested side by side 
Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited 

strength, 
Have hailed the morning sun. But cheer- 
ily, Father, — 
That staff of yours, I could almost have 

heart 
To fling 't away from you : you make no 

use 
Of me, or of my strength ; — come, let me 

feel 
That you do press upon me. There — in 

deed 
You are quite exhausted. Let us rest 

awhile 
On this green bank, \^He sits down. 

Her. {after some time). Idonea, you are 

silent, 
And I d.vine the cause. 

/don. Do not reproach me : 

I pondered patiently your wish and will 
When I gave way to your request ; and 

now, 
When I behold the ruins of that face. 
Those eyeballs dark — dark beyond hope of 

light, 
And think that they were blasted for nay 

sake, 
The name of Marmaduke is blown away : 
Father, I would not change that sacred 

feeling 
For all this world can give. 

//er. Nay, be composed 

Few minutes gone a faintness overspread 
My frame, and I bethought me of two 

things 
I.ne'er bad heart to separate — my grave, 
And thee, my Child ! 

/do?i. Believe me, honored Sire ! 

'Tis weariness that breeds these gloomy 

fancies, 
And you mistake the cause ; you hear the 

woods 
Resound with music ; could you see tlie 

sun, 
And look upon the pleasant face of Na- 
ture 

//er. I comprehend thee — I should be as 

cheerful 
As if we two were twins ; two songsters 

bred 
In the same nest, my spring-time one with 

thine. 



46 



POEMS WRTTTEN IN YOUTH. 



My fancies, fancies if they be, are such 

As come, dear Child ! from a far deeper 

source 
Than bodily weariness. While here we sit 
1 feci my strcns^th returning. — The bequest 
Of thy kind Patroness, which to receive 
We have thus far adventured, will suffice 
To save thee from the extreme of penury ; 
But when thy father must lie down and die. 
Row wilt thou stand alone ? 

Idon. Is he not strong ? 

Is he not valiant ? 

Her. Am I then so soon 

Forgotten? have my warnings passed so 

quickly 
Out of thy mind ? My dear, my only, 

Child . 
Thou wouldst be leaning on a broken reed — 

This Marmaduke 

Idon. O could you hear his voice: 

Alas ! you do not know him. He is one 
(I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him 

with you) 
All gentleness and love. His face be- 
speaks 
A deep and simple meekness : and that 

Soul, 
Which with the motion of a virtuous act 
Flashes a look of terror upon guilt, 
Is, after conflict, quiet as the ocean. 
By a miraculous finger, stilled at once. 
Her. Unhappy woman ! 
Idon, ^ Nay, It was my duty 

Thus much to speak ; but think not I for- 
get- 
Dear Father ! how coidd I forget and live — 
You and the story of that doleful night 
When, Antioch blazing to her topmost 

towers, 
You rushed into the murderous flames, re- 
turned 
Blind as the grave, but, as you oft have 

told me, 
Clasping your infant Daughter to your 
heart. 
Her. Thy Mother too ! — scarce had I 
gained the door, 
I caught her voice ; she threw her arms up- 
on me, 
I felt thy infant brother in her arms ; 
She saw my blasted face — a tide of soldiers 
That instant rushed between us, and I 
heard 
>sr last death-shriek, distinct among a 

thousand. 
Idon. Nay, Father, stop not ; let me 
hear it all. 



Her. Dear Daughter ! precious relic ol 
that time — 
For my old age, it doth remain with thet 
To make it what thou wilt. Thou hast 

been told, 
That when on our return from Palestine, 
I found how my domains had been usurped, 
I took thet in my arms, and we began 
Our wanderings together. Providence 
At length conducted us to Rossland, — 

there, 
Our melancholy story moved a Stranger 
To take thee to her home— and for myself, 
Soon after, the good Abbot of St. Cuth- 

bcrt's 
Supplied my helplessness with food and rai- 
ment, 
And, as thou know'st, gave me that humble 

Cot 
Where now we dwell.— For many years I 

bore 
Thy absence, till old age and fresh infirm- 
ities 
Exacted thy return, and our reunion. 
I did not think that, during that long ab- 
sence, 
My Child, forgetful of the name of Herbert, 
Had given her love to a wild Freebooter, 
Who here, upon the borders of the Tweed, 
Doth prey alike on two distracted Coun- 

triesj 
Traitor to both. 

Idon. Oh, could you hear his voice 

I will not call on Heaven to vouch for me, 
But let this kiss speak what is in my heart. 

Enter a Peasant. 
Pea. Good morrow, Strangers ! If you 
want a Guide, 
Let me have leave to serve you ! 

Idon My Companion 

Hath need of rest ; the sight of Hut or 

Hostel 
Would be most welcome. 

Pea. Yon white hawthorn gained, 

You will look down into a dell, and there 
Will see an ash from which a sign -board 

hangs ; 
The house is hidden by the shade. Old 

Man, 
You seem worn out with travel — shall I 
support you ? 
Her. I thank you: but, a resting-place 
so near, 
'Twere wrong to trouble you. 

Pea. God speed you both. 

\Exit PeasMt. 



rOEAfS WRITTEN IN YOUTIf. 



47 



Her. Idonea, we inust part. He not 
alarmed — 
*Tis but for a few days — a tliought lias 
struck me. 
Idon. That I sl'.oukl leave you at this 
house, and thence 
Procetd alone. It shall bo so , for strength 
Would fail you ere our journey's end be 
reached. 

\Exit Herbert supported by Idonea. 
Re-enter Marmaduke and Oswald. 

Mar. This instant will we stop him 

Osu<. r.e not hasty, 

For, sometimes, in despite of my convic- 
tion, 
lie tempted me to think the Story true ; 
'Tis plain he loves the Maid, and what he 

said 
That savored of aversion to thy name 
Appeared the genuine color of his soul — 
Anxiety lest mischief should befall her 
After his death. 
Alar. I have been much deceived. 

Osw But sure he loves the Maiden, and 
never love 
Could find delight to nurse itself so 

strangely, 
Thus to torment her with inventions.' — 

death — 
There must be truth in this. 

Mar Truth in his story ! 

He must have felt it then, known what it 

was. 
And in such wise to rack her gentle heart 
Had been a tenfold cruelty. 

Osw, Strange pleasures 

Do we poor mortals cater for ourselves ! 
To see him thus provoke her tenderness 
With talcs of weakness and infirmity ! 
IM wager on his life for twenty years. 
Mar. We will not waste an hour in such 

a cause. 
Os7v. Why, this is noble I shake her off 

at once. 
Mar. Her virtues are his instruments. — 
A Man 
Who has so practised on the world's cold 

sense 
May well deceive his Child— what! leave 

her thus, 
A prey to a deceiver ? — no — no — no — 
'Tis but a word and then— — - 

Osw. Something is here 

More than we see, or whence this strong 

aversion ? 
Marmaduke ! I suspect unworthy t-^les 



Have reached his car — you have had ene- 
mies. 
Mar. Enemies !— of his own coinage. 
Osw. That may be. 

But wherefore slight protection such as you 
Have power to yield! perhaps he looks 

elsewhere. — 
I am perplexed 
Mar What hast thou heard or seen ? 

Os'ur No- no — the thing stands clear of 
mystery ; 
(As you have said) he coins himself the 

slander 
With which he taints her ear; — for a plain 

reason ; 
He dreads the presence of a virtuous man 
Like you ; he knows your eye would search 

his Iieart, 
Your justice stamp upon his evil deeds 
The punishment they merit. All is plain: 

It cannot be 

Mar. What cannot be.? 

Osit'. Yet that a Father 

Should in his love admit no rivalship, 
And torture thus the hcai t of his own 

Child 

Mar. Nay, you abuse my friendship ! 
Osw Heaven forbid! — 

There was a circumstance, trifling indeed — 
It struck me at the time—yet I believe 
I never should have tiiought of it again 
But for the scene which we by chance have 
witnessed. 
Mar. What is your meaning ? 
Osw. Two day's gone I saw, 

Though at a distance and he was disguised, 
Hovering round Herbert's door, a man 

whose figure 
Resembled much that cold voluptuary. 
The villain, Clifford. He hates you, and 

he knows 
Where he can stab you deepest. 

Mar. Clifford never 

Would stoop to skulk about a Cottage 

door — 
It could not be. 

Os7v. And yet I now remember, 

That, when your praise was warm upon my 

tongue. 
And the blind Man was told how you had 

rescued 
A maiden from the ruffian violence 
Of this same Clifford, he became impatient 
And would not hear me. 

Afar. No — it cannot be— 

I dare not trust myself withfuch a thought— 



48 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



'ii.\. whence this strange aversion ? You are 
a man 

Not used to rash conjectures 

Os7v. If you deem it 

A thing worth further notice, we must act 
With caution, sift the matter artfully. 

\Excunt Makmauukk ««^/ Oswald. 

Scene, the door of the Hostel 

Herbert, Idonea, and Host. 

Her. {seated). As I am dear to you, re- 
member, Child ! 
This last request. 

Idon. You know me. Sire ; farewell ! 

Her. And arc you going then .? Come, 

come, Idonea, 
Wl- must not part, — I have measured many 

a league 
When these old limbs had need of rest, — and 

now 
J will not play the sluggard. 
Idon. Nay, sit down. 

{Turning to Host. 
Good Host, such tendance as j'ou would ex- 
pect 
From your own Children, if yourself were 

sick. 
Let this old Man find at your hands ; poor 

Leader, [Looking at the c 'og. 

We soon shall meet again. If Uiou neglect 
This charge of thine, then ill befail thee ! — 

Look, 
The little fool is loth to stay behind. 
Sir tlost ! by all the love you bear to 

courtesy, 
Take care of him, and feed the truant well. 
Host. Fear not, 1 will obey you ; — but 

One so young, 
And One so fair, it goes against my heart 
That you should travel unattended, Lady ! — 
I have a palfrey and a groom : the lad 
Shall squire you, (would it not be better. 

Sir?) 
And for less fee than I would let him run 
For any lady I have seen this twelvemonth. 
Idon. You know, Sir, I have been too 

long your guard 
Mot to have learnt to laugh at little fears. 
'fi\\y, if a wolf should leap from out a 

thicket, 
A look of mine would send him scouring 

back. 
Unless I differ from the thing I am 
Wlien you are by my side. 



Her. Idonea, wolves 

Are not the enemies tliat move my fears. 
Ido)i. No more, I pray, of this. Three 
days at farthest 
Will bring me back — protect him, Saints — 
farewell ! [Exit Idonea, 

Host. 'Tis never drought with us — St. 
Cuthbeit and his Pilgrims, 
Thanks to them, are to us a stream of com- 
fort : 
Pity the Maiden did not wait a while ; 
She could not, Sir, have failed of company. 
Her. Now she is gone, I fain would call 

her back. 
Host {calling). Holla! 
Her. No, no, the business must be 
done. — 
What means this rioious noise.'' 

Host. The villagers 

Are flocking in — a wedding festival — 
That's all — God save you, Sir. 
Enter Oswald. 
Osw. Ha! as I live, 

The Baron Herbert. 
Host. Mercy, the Baron Herbert ! 

Oszv. So far into your journey ! on my 
life. 
You are a lusty Traveller. But how fare 
you? 
Her. Well as the wreck I am permits. 

And you, Sir .'' 
Osiv. I do not see Idonea. 
Her. Dutiful Girl, 

She has gone before, to spare my weariness. 
But what has brought you hither t 

Osiv. A slight affair. 

That will be soon despatched. 

Her. Did Marmaduke 

Receive that letter ? 

Osiv. Be at peace. — The tie 

Is broken, you will hear no more of him. 
Her. That is true comfort, thanks a 
thousand times !— 
That noise ! — would I had gone with her as 

far 
As the Lord Clifford's Castle : I liave heard 
That, in his milder moods, he has expressed 
Compassion for me. His influence is great 
With Henry, our good King ; — the Baron 
might [Court. 

Have heard my suit, and urged my plea at 
No matter — he's a dangerous Man. — That 

noise ! — 
'Tis too chsorderly for sleep or rest. 
Idonea would have fears for mc. — the Coo- 
vent 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



49 



Wil] give me quiet lodging. You h-ave a 

boy, good Host, 
And lie must lead me back. 

Os^v. You are most lucky ; 

I have been waiting in the wood hard by 
For a companion — here he comes ; our 
journey 

Enter Marmaduke. 
Lies on your way ; accept us as your Guides. 
Her. Alas ! 1 creep so slowly. 
Osxv. Never fear : 

We'll not complain of that. 

Her. My limbs are stiff 

And need repose. Could you but wait an 

hour? 

Osw. Most willingly ! — Come, let me lead 

you in, 

And, while you take your rest, think not 

of us ; 
We'll stroll into the wood ; lean on my arm. 
\Condiicis Herbert into the house. 
Exit Marmaduke. 

Enter Villagers. 
Osxv. {to himself coming out of the Hostel.) 
1 have prepared a most apt Instru- 
ment — 
The Vagrant must, no doubt, be loitering 

somewliere 
About tills ground; she hath a tongue well 

skilled, 
By mingling natural matter of her own 
With ail the daring fictions I have taught 

her. 
To win belief, such as my plot requires. 

{Exit Oswald. 
Enter more Villagers, a Musician among 
them. 
Host (to them). Into the court, my 
F'riend, and jierch yourself 
Aloft upon the elm-tree. Pretty Maids, 
Garlands and flowers, and cakes and merry 

thoughts. 
Are here, to send the sun into the west 
More speedily than you belike would wish. 

Scene changes to the Wood adjoining the 
//fj/'f/— Marmaduke and Oswald 
Cfitering. 
Mar. I would fain hope that we deceive 
ourselves : 
When first I saw him sitting there, alone, 
It struck upon my heart I know not how. 
Os7v. To-day will clear up all. — You 
marked a Cottage, 



That ragged Dwelling, close beneath a rock 
By the brook-side : it is the abode of one, 
A Maiden innocent till ensnared by Clifford, 
Who soon grew weary of her ; but, alas ! 
What she had seen and suffered turned her 

brain. 
Cast off by her Betrayer she dwells alone. 
Nor moves her hands to any needful work 
She eats her food which every day the peas- 
ants 
Bring to her hut ; and so the Wretch has 

lived 
Ten years ; and no one ever heard her 

voice ; 
But every night at the first stroke of twelve 
She quits her house, and, in the neighboring 

Churchyard 
Upon the self-same spot, in rain or storm. 
She paces out the hour 'twixt twelve and 

one- 
She paces round and round an Infant's 

grave, 
And in the churchyard sod her feet have 
worn 

A hollow ring ; they say it is knee-deep 

Ah ? what is here ? 

A female Beggar rises 7ip, rubbing her eyes 
as if in sleep — a Child tn her arms. 
Beg. Oh ! Gentlemen, I thank you ; 

I've had the saddest dream that ever trou- 
bled [Babe 
The heart of living creature. — My poor 
Was crying, as I thought, crying for bread 
When I had none to give him ; whereupon, 
I put a slip of foxglove in his hand, 
Which pleased him so, that he was hushed 

at once : 
When, into one of those same spotted bellt 
A bee came darting, which the Child witn 

joy 
Imprisoned there, and held it to his ear, 
And suddenly grew black, as he would die. 
Mar. We have no time for this, my bab- 
bling Gossip ; 
Here's what will comfort you. 

[ Gives her money. 

Beg. Tlie S.iints reward you 

For this good deed ! — Well, Sirs, this passed 

away ; 
And afterwards I fancied, a strange dog, 
Trotting alone along the beaten road. 
Came to my child as by my side he slept 
And, fondling, licked his face, then on k 

sudden 
Snapped fierce to make a morsel of his 
head : 



50 



POEMS Pf/R/TTEM IN- YorTFi 



But here he is \kisstng the Chzld], it must 

have been a dream. 
Osw. Wlieii next iiichned to sleep, take 

my advice, 
\i\i\ put your head, good Woman, under 

cover. 
Beg Oh, sir, you would not talk thus, if 

you knew 
What life is this of ours, how bleep will 

master 
/he weary-worn. — You gentlefolk have got 
Warm chambers to your wish. I'd rather be 
A stone tiian what 1 am, — But two nights 

gone, 
The darkness overtook me — wind and rain 
Beat hard upon my head — and yet 1 saw 
A glow-worm, through the covert of the 

furze, 
Shine calmly as if nothing ailed the sky : 
At which 1 half accused the God in Hea- 
ven — 
Yon must forgive me. 

Os7u. Ay, and if you think 

The Fairies are to blame, and you should 

chide 
if our favorite saint — no matter — this good 

day 
Has made amends. 

Beg. Thanks to you both ; but, O sir ! 
How would you like to travel on whole 

hours 
As I have done, my eyes upon the ground. 
Expecting still, I knew not how, to find 
A piece of money glittering through the 

dust. 
Afar. This woman is a prater. Pray, 

good Lady ! 
Do vou tell fortunes ? 

Scg. Oh Sir, you are like tlie rest. 

This Little-one — it cms me to the heart — 
Wi?Il ! they might turn a beggar from their 

doors, [Babe 

P.ut there are Mothers who can see the 
Here at my breast, and ask me where I 

bought it . 
This they can do, and look upon my face — 
But you. Sir, should be kinder. 

Mar. Come hither, Fathers, 

And learn what nature is from this poor 

Wretch i 
Beg. Ay, Sir. there's nobody tliat feels 
for us. 
Why now — but yesterday I overtook 
A blind old Grayheard and accosted him, 
I'th' name of all the baints, and by the 

Mais 



He should have used me better! — Charity! 
If ycHi can melt a rock, he is your man ; 
But I'll be even with him — here again 
Have 1 been waiting for him. 

Osw. Well, but softly. 

Who is it that hath wronged you ? 

Beg. Mark you me 

I'll point him out; — a Maiden is his guide, 
Lovely as Sprmg's first rose : a little dog, 
'J'ied by a woollen cord, moves on before 
With look as sad as he were dumb ; the cur, 
1 owe him no ill will, but in good snoth 
He does his Master credit. 

Mar. As I live, 

'Tis Herbert and no other! 

Beg. 'Tis a feast to see him, 

Lank as a ghost and tall, his shoulders bent. 
And long beard white with age — yet ever- 
more. 
As if he were the only Saint on earth, 
He turns his face to heaven. 

Osw. But why so violei 

Against this venerable Man ? 

^Beg. I'll tell you : 

He has the very hardest heart on earth ; 
I had as lief turn to the Friar's school 
And knock for entrance, in mid lioliday. 

Mar. But to your story. 

Beg. 1 was saying, Sir- 

Well! — he has often spurned me like a toad 
But yesterday was worse than all ; — at last 
I overtook him, Sirs, my Babe and I, 
And begged a little aid for charity : 
But he was snappish as a cottage cur. 
Well then, tays I — I'll out with it ; at which 
1 cast a look upon the Girl, and felt 
As if my heart would burst ; and so I kf. 
him. 

Os7v. I think, good Woman, you are tlic 
very person 
Whom, but some few days past, I saw .i 

Eskdale, 
At Herbert's door. 

Beg. Ay ; and if truth were known 

I have good business there. 

Osw. 1 met you at the thresJiold, 

And he seemed angry. 

Beg. Angry ! well he might; 

And'long as I can stir I'll dog him. — Vo& 

terday. 
To serve me so, and knowing that he ewes 
The best of all he has to me and mine. 
But 'tis all over now. — That good old Lady 
Has left a power of riches ; and I say it. 
If there's a lawyer in the land, the knave 
Shall give me half. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



Osw. What's this ? — I fear, good Woman, 
You have been insolent. 

Bf£^. And there's the Baron, 

I spied him skulking in his peasant's dress. 

Osiv. How say you ? in disguise ? — 

Afar. But whafs your business 

With Herbert or his Daughter? 

Beg. Daughter ! truly — 

But how's the day ? — I fear, my little Boy 
We've overslept ourselves. — Sirs, have you 
seen him ? \Oj[fers toi;,o. 

Mar. 1 must have more ot this ; — you 
shall not stir 
An inch, till 1 am answered. Know you 

aught 
That doth concern this Herbert ? 

Beg. You are provoked. 

And will misuse me. Sir ! 

Afar. No triflin;^, Woman ! — 

Osw. You are safe a-s in .i sanctuary ; 
Speak. 

Afar. Speak ! 

Beg. He is a most hard-hearted Man. 

Afar. Your life is at my mercy. 

Beg. Do not harm me, 

And 1 will tell you all ! — You know not, 

Sir, 
What strong temptations press upon the 
Poor. 

Osiv. Speak out. 

Beg. Oh Sir, I've been a wicked Woman. 

Osw. Nay, but speak out ! 

Beg. He flattered me, and said 

What harvest it would bring us both ; and so, 
1 parted with the Child. 

Afar. Parted with wljom ? 

Beg. Idonea, as he calls her ; but the Girl 
Is mine. 

Afar. Yours, Woman ! are you Herbert's 
wife ? 

Beg. Wife, Sir ! his wife — not I ; my 
husband, Sir, 
Was of Kirkoswald — many a snowy winter 
We've weathered out together. My poor 

Gilfred ! 
He has been two years in his grave. 

Afar. Enough. 

Osw. We've solved the riddle — Miscreant! 

Afar. Do you. 

Hood Dame, repair to Liddesdale and wait 
Vi'T my return ; be sure you shall have 
I'lstice. 

Osw. A lucky woman ! go, you have done 
good service. ^Aside. 

Mar. {to himself). Eternal praises on 
the power that saved her I — 



Osw. {gives her motley). Here's for your 
little boy — and when you christen him 
ril be his Godfather. 

Beg. Oh Sir, you are merry with me. 

In grange or farm this Hundred scarcely 

owns 
.\ dog that does not know me. — These good 

Folks, ' 
For love of God, I must not pass their doors ; 
But I'll be back with my best speed : for 

you — 
God bless and thank you both, my gentle 
Masters. {Exit Beggar. 

Afar, {to himself). The cruel Viper ! — 
Poor devoted Maid, 
Now I do love thee. 

Osw. I am thunderstruck. 

Afar Where is she— holla! 

{Calling to the Beggar, who returtis , 
he looks at her stedfastly. 

You arc Idonea's Mother?— 
Nay, be not terrified — it does me good 
To look upon you. 

Osiv. {interrupting.) In a peasant's 
dress 
You saw, who was it ? 

Beg. Nay, I dare not speak 

He is a man, if it should come to his cars 
I never shall be heard of more. 

Osw. Lord Clifford? 

Beg. What can I do? believe me, gentlo 

Sirs, 

I love 1 r, though I dare not call her 

da ter. 

Osw. Lord Clifford— did you see him 

talk with Herbert ? 
Beg. Yes, to my sorrow — under the great 
oak 
At Herbert's door — and when he stood be- 
side 
The blind Man — at the silent Girl he looked 
With such a look — it makes me tremble, Sir, 
To think of it. 

Osw. Enough ! you may depart, 

Mar. {to himself). Father ! — to Goc 
himself we cannot give 
.\ holier name ; and, under such a mask, 
To lead a Spirit, spotless as the blessed, 
To that abhorred den of brutish vice ! — 
Oswald, the firm foundation of my life 
Is going from under me; these strange dis 

coveries — 
Looked at from every point of fear or liopei 
Duty, or love— involve, I feel, my ruin. 



52 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOL/Tfr. 



ACT II. 

Scene, A Chamber in the Hostel— Os- 
WAiD alone, rising from a Table on 
which he had been writing. 

Osw. They chose ///w for their Chief! — 

what covert part, 
He, in tlie preference, modest Youth, might 

take, 
I neither know nor care. The insult bred 
More of contempt than hatred ; both are 

flown ; 
That citlier e'er existed is my shame : 
'Twas a dul! spark — a most unnatural fire 
That died the moment the air breathed upon 

It. 
— These fools of feeling are mere birds of 

winter 
That haunt some barren island of the north, 
Where, if a famishing man stretch forth his 

hand. 
They think it is to feed them. I have left 

liim 
To solitary meditation ; — now 
For a few swilling j^lirases, and a flash 
Of truth, enough to dazzle and to blind, 
And he is mine forever — here lie comes. 

Enter Mahmaduke. 

Mar. These ten years she has moved her 
lips all day 
And never speaks ! 

Os7v. Who is it .? 

Mar. 1 have seen her. 

Osw. Oh ! the poor tenant of tliat ragged 
homestead, 
Her whom tiie Monster, Clifford, drove to 
madness. 
Mar. I met a peasant near tlie spot ; he 
told me. 
These ten years she "had sate all day alone 
Within those empty walls, 

Osiv. I loo have seen her ; 

Chancing to pass this way some six months 

gone. 
At midnight, I betook me to the Church- 
yard : 
The moon shone clear, the air was still, so 

stm 

The trees were silent as the graves beneath 

them. 
Long did I watch, and saw he-r pacing 
Upon the self-same spot, still round and 

round. 
Her lips forever moving. 
Mar. At her door 



Rooted I stood : for, looking at the womaa, 
I thought I saw the skeleton of Idonea, 

Osw. But the pretended Father 

Mar. Earthly law 

Measures not crimes like his. 

Osw. We rank not, happily. 

With those who take the spirit of their rule 
From that soft class of devotees who feel 
Reverence for life so deeply that they spare 
The verminous brood, and cherish what tliey 

spare 
While feeding on their bodies. W«uld that 

Idonea 
Were present, to the end that we might hear 
What she can urge in his defence ; she loves 
him. 
Mar. Yes, loves him ; 'tis a trutb, that 
multiplies 
His guilt a thousand-fold. 

Osw. 'Tis most perplexing ; 

What must be done ? 

Mar. We will conduct hcr.liither ; 

Tliese walls shall witness it — from first to 

last 
He shall reveal himself. 

Osw. Happy are we, 

Wlu) live in these disputed tracts, thart own 
No law but what rach man makes for him- 
self . 
Here justice has indeed a field of triumph. 
Mar. Let us begone and bring her 
hither ;— -iiere 
The truth shall be laid open, liis guilt proved 
Before her face. The rest be left to me. 
Osw. You will be firm : but though we 
well may trust 
The issue to the justice of the cause, 
Caution must not be flung aside ; remember, 
Yours is no common life. Self-stationed 

here 
Upon these savage confines, we have seen 

you 
Stand like an isthmus 'twixt two stormy 

■ seas 
That oft havo, checked their fury it youi 

bidding. 
'Mid the deep holds of Sol way's mossy 

waste, 
Your single virtue has transformed a Band 
Of fierce barbarians into Ministers 
Of peace and order. Aged men with tears 
Have blessed their steps, the fatherless re 

tire 
For shelter to their banners. But it is. 
As you must needs have dec))ly felt, it is 
In darkness and in tempest that we seek 
The majesty of Him who rules the world 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



53 



Benevolence, that has not heart to use 
The wholesome ministry of pain and evil, 
Becomes at last weak and contemptible. 
Voiir generous qualities have won due 

praise, 
But vigorous Spirits look for something 

more 
Than Youth's spontaneous products ; and 

to-day 
You will not disappoint them ; and here- 
after^ 

Mar. You are wasting words ; hear me 
then, once for all : 
You arc a Man — and therefore, if compas- 
sion, 
Which to our kind is natural as life, 
i'.c known unto you, you will love this 

Woman, 
Even as 1 do ; but I should loathe the light, 
If 1 could think one weak or partial feel- 
ing 

Osw. You will forgive me 

Alar. If I ever knew 

My heart, could penetrate its inmost core, 
*Tis at this moment. — Oswald, I have loved 
To be the friend and father of the oppressed, 
A comforter of sorrow ; — there is some- 
thing 
Which looks like a transition in my soul, 
And yet it is not. — Let us lead him hither. 
Osw. Stoop for a monicnt ; 'tis an act of 
justice : 
And Where's the triumph if the delegate 
Must fall in the execution of his office ^ 
The deed is done — if you will have it so — 
Here where we stand — that tribe of vulgar 

wretches 
(You saw them gathering from the festival) 

Rush in — the villains seize us 

Mar. Seize ! 

Osw. Yes, they — 

Men who are little given to sift and weigh — 
Would wreak on us the passion of the mo- 
ment. 
Mar. The cloud will soon disperse — fare- 
well — but stay, 
Thou wilt relate the story. 

Osw. Am I neither 

To bear a part in this Man's punishment, 
Nor be its witness ? 

Mar. I had many hopes 

That were most dear to me, and some will 

bear 
To be transferred to thee. 

Osw. When I'm dishonored ! 

Mar. I would preserve thee. How may 
this be done ? 



Osw. By showing that you look beyond 

the instant. 
A few leagues hence we shall have open 

ground, 
And nowhere upon earth is place so fit 
To look upon the deed. Before we enter 
The barren Moor, hangs from a beetling 

rock 
The shattered Castle in which Clifford oft 
Has held infernal orgies — with the gloom, 
And very superstition of the place, 
Seasoning his wickedness. The Debauchee 
Would there perhaps have gathered the 

fust fruits 
Of this mock Father's guilt. 

Enter Host conducting Herbert. 

Host. The Baron Herbert 

Attends your pleasure. 

Osw. {to Host). W^e are ready — 

{to Heriert) Sir! 
I hope you are refreshed. — 1 have just 

written 
A notice for your Daughter, that she may 

know 
What is become of you. — You'll sit down 

and sign it ; 
'Twill glad her heart to see her father's sig- 
nature. 

[Gives the letter he had written. 
Her. Thanks for your care. 

[Sits doiv/i and writes. Exit Host. 
Osxv. {aside to Marmaduke). I'crhaps 
it would be useful 
That you too should subscribe your name. 
[Marmaduke overlooks Herbert — then 
writes — examines the letter eagerly. 
Mar. 1 car.not leave this paper. 

[He pnts it up, agitated. 

Osw. {aside). Dastard ! Come. 

[Marmaduke goes towards Herbert 

and supports him — Marmaduke 

tremblingly beckons Oswald to take 

his place. 

Mar. {as he g'uits Hkrbkrt). There is 

a palsy in his limbs — he shakes. 
[Exeunt Oswald and Herbert— Mar- 
maduke following. 

Scene changes to a Wood— a Group of 
Pilgrims^ and Idonea with them. 

First Pil. A grove of dai^ker and mor« 
lofty shade 
I Tiever saw. 
Sec. Pil. The na»isic of the birds 



'54 



FORMS WRITTEN TV YOUTH. 



Drops deadened from a roof so thick with 
leaves. 
Old Pil. This news ! It made my heart 

leap up with joy. 
Idon. I scarcely can believe it. 
Old Pil. Myself, I heard 

The Sheriff read, in open Court, a letter 

Which purported it was the royal ]->lcasure 

The Baron Herbert, who, as was supi^ osed, 

Had taken refuge in this neighborhood. 

Should be forthwith restored. The hearing, 
Lady, 

Filled my dim eyes with tears. — When I re- 
turned 

From Palestine, and brought with me a 
heart, 

Though rich in heavenly, poor in earthly, 
comfort, 

I met your Father, then a wandering out- 
cast . 

He had a guide, a Shepherd's boy ; but 
grieved 

He was that One so young should pass his 
youth 

In such sad service ; and he parted with 
him. 

We joiped our tales of wretchedness to- 
gether, 

And begged our daily bread from door to 
door. 

I talk familiarly to you, sweet Lady ! 

For once you loved me. 

Idon. You shall back with me 

And see your Friend again. The good old 
Man 

Will be rejoiced to greet you. 

Old Ptl. It seems but yesterday 

That a fierce storm o'ertook us, worn with 
travel, 

In a deep wood remote from any town. 

A cave that opened to the road presented 

A friendly shelter, and we entered in. 
Idoti. And 1 was with you .'' 
Old Pil. If indeed 'twas you — 

But you were then a tottering Little-one — 

We sate us down. The sky grew dark and 
darker ; 

I struck my fiint, and built up a small fire 

With njtten boughs and leaves, such as the 
winds 

Of many autumns in the cave had piled. 

Meanwhile the storm fell heavy on the 
woods : 

Our little fire sent forth a cheering warmth 

And we were comforted, and talked of com- 
fort j 

But 'tvras an angry night, and o'er our heads 



The thunder rolled in peals that would hav| 

made 
A sleeping m.in uneasy in his bed. 

Lady, you have need to love your Father 
His voice— methinks I hear it now, his 

voice 
When, after a broad flash that filled the 

cave. 
He said to me, that he had seen his Child, 
A face (no cherub's face more beautiful) 
Revealed by lustre brought with it from 

Heaven ; 
And it was you, dear Lady 

Idon. God be praisedj 

That I have been his comforter till now , 
And will be so through every change of for- 
tune 
And every sacrifice his peace requires. — 
Let us be gone, with speed, that he may 

hear 
These joyful tidings from no lips but mm. 
\Exeunt Idonea and Filgrmis 

Scene, the Area of a half-ruined Castle 
— on one side the entrance to a diaia^con 
— Oswald and Marmaduke facing 
backwards and forwards. 

Mar: 'Tis a wild night. 

Osw. I'd give my cloak and bonnet 

For sight of a warm fire. 

Mar. The wind blows keen; 

My hands are numb. 

Osw, Ha! ha! 'tis nipping cold. 

[^Blowing his fingers. 

1 long for news of our brave Comrades ; 

Lacy 
Would drive those Scottish Rovers to their 

dens 
If once they blew a horn this side the Tweed. 
Mar. I think I see a second range of 
Towers; 
This castle has another Area — come. 
Let us examine it. 

Osw. 'Tis a bitter night; 

I hope Idonea is well housed. That horse 

man, 
Who at full speed swept by us where tht 

wood 
Roared in the tempest, was within an ace 
Of sending to his grave our precious Charge; 
That would have been i^ vile mischance. 
Mar. It would. 

Osw. Justice had been most cruelly de- 
frauded. 
Mar. Most cruelly. 
Osw, As up the steep we clom\^ 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



55 



1 saw a distant fire in the north-east ; 

I took it for the blaze of Cheviot Beacon : 

With proper speed our quarters may be 

gained 
To-morrow evening. 

\Looks restlessly towards the month 
of the dungeon. 
Mar. When, upon the plank, 

( had led him 'cross the torrent, his voice 

blessed me : 
Vou could not hear, for the foam beat the 

rocks 
Witlj deafening noise, — the benediction fell 
Back on himself ; but clianged into a curse. 
Osiv. As well indeed it might. 
Mar. And this you deem 

The fittest place 1 

Osw. {aside). He is growing pitiful. 
Mar. (listening). What an odd moaning 

that is !— 
Osw. Mighty odd 

The wind should pipe a little, while we 

stand 
Cooling our heels in this way ! — I'll begin 
And count the stars. 
Mar. (still listening). That dog of his, 
you are sure, 
Could not come after us — he must have 

perished ; 
The torrent would have dashed an oak to 

splinters. 
You said you did not like his looks — that he 
Would trouble us ; if he were here again, 
I swear the sight of him would quail me 

more 
Than twenty armies. 

Os7t'. How ? 

A/ar. The old blind Man, 

Wiiei) you had told him the mischance, was 

troubled 
Even to the shedding of some natural tears 
Into the torrent over which he hung, 
Listening in vain. 
Osw. He has a tender heart ! 

[Oswald ^<?r^ to go down into the 
dungeon. 
Afar How now, what mean you ? 
Osw. Truly, 1 was going 

To waken our stray Baron. Were there 

not 
A farm or dwelling-house within five 

leagues, 
We should deserve to wear a cap and bells, 
Three good round years, for playing the fool 

here 
In such a night as this. 
Alar, Stop, step. 



Osw. Perhaps. 

You'd better like we should descend to- 

getiier. 
And lie down by his side — what say you to 

it.? 
Three of us — we should keep each other 

warm : 
I'll answer for it that our four-legged friend 
Shall not disturb us ; further I'll not en- 
gage ; 
Come, come, for manhood's sake ! 

Mar. These drowsy shiverings, 

This mortal stupor which is creeping over 

me. 
What do they mean .? were this my single 

body 
Opposed to armies, not a nerve would 

tremble : 
Why do 1 tremble now ? — Is not the depth 
Of this Man's crimes beyond the reach of 

thought ^ 
And yet, in plumbing the abyss for judg- 
ment. 
Something I strike upon which turns my 

mind 
Back ou herself, I think, again — my breast 
Concentres all the terrors of tlie Universe ; 
1 look itt him and tremble like a child. 
Os7u. Is it possible ? 

Afar. One thing you noticed not : 

Just as we left the glen a clap of thunder 
Burst on the mountains with hell-rousing 

force. 
This is a time, said he, when guilt niay 

shudder ; 
But there's a Providence for them who walk 
In helplessness, when innocence is with 

them. 
At this audacious blasphemy, I thought 
The spirit of vengeance seemed to ride the 
air. 
Osiv. Why are you not the man you were 
t!iat moment ? 

{He draivs Marmaduke to the 
dungeon. 
Mar. You say he was asleep, — look at 
thi^rm. 
And tell me if 'tis fit for such a work. 
Oswald, Oswald ! {Leans upon Oswald. 
Osw. This is some sudden seizure I 

Mar. A most strange laintness, — will you 
hunt me out 
A draught of water ? 

Osw. Nav, to see you thus 

Moves me beyond my bearing. — I will try 
To gain the torrent's brink. 

{Exit Oswald. 



56 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



A-^zr. {after a pause). It seems an age 

Siuce that Man left me — No, I am not lost. 

Her. {at the mouth of the dungeon). 

Give me your hand ; where are you, 

Friends ? and tell me 

How goes the night. 

Mar. 'Tis hard to measure time, 

In such a weary night, and such -" place. 
Her. I do not hear the voice of my friend 

Oswald. 
Mar. .\ minute past, he went to fetch a 
draught 
Of water from the torrent. ■ 'Tis, you'll say, 
A cheerless beverage. 

Her. How good it was in you 

To stay br;hind ! — Hearing at first no 

answer, 
I was alarmed. 

Mar, No wonder ; this is a place 

That well may put some fears into your 
heart. [comfort. 

Her. Why so ? a roofless rock had been a 
Storm-beaten and bewildered as we were ; 
And in a night like this, to lend your cloaks 
To make a bed for me !— My Girl will weep 
When she is told of it. 

Mar. This Daughter of yours 

Is very dear to you. 

Her. Oh ! but you are young ; 

Over your head twice twenty years must 

roll, [pain. 

With all their natural weight of sorrow and 

Ere can be known to you how much a 

Father 
May love his Child. 
Mar. Thank you, old Man, for this ! 

, {Aside. 
Her. Fallen am I, and worn out, a use- 
less Man ; 
Kindly have you protected me to-night, 
And no return have I to make but prayers ; 
May you in age be blest with such a daugh- 
ter ! 
When from the Holy Land I had returned 
Sightless, and from my heritage was driven, 
A. wretched Outcast — but this strain of 

thou gilt 
Would lead me to talk fondly. 

Mar. Do not fear ; 

Your words are precious to my ears ; go on. 
Her. You will forgive me, but my heart 
runs over. 
When my old Leader slipped mto the flood 
And perished, what a piercing outcry you 
Sent after him. I have loved you ever 

since. 
?fou start — where arc we ? 



Mar. Oh, there is no danger 

The cold blast struck me. 
Her. ' Twas a foolish question. 

Mar. But when you were an Outcast ?— 
Heaven is just ; 
Your piety would not miss its due reward ; 
The little Orphan then would be your sue 

cor, 
And do good service, though she knew it 
not. 
Her. I turned me from the dwellings of 
my Fathers, 
Where none but those who trampled on my 

rights 
Seemed to remember me. To the wide 

world 
1 bore her, m my arms , her looks won 

pity; 
She was my Raven m the wilderness, 
And brought me food. Have 1 not cause 
to love her ? 
Mar. Yes. 
Her. More than ever Parent loved a 

Child ? 
Mar. Yes, yes. 

Her. I will not murmur, merciful God! 
I will not murmur , blasted as 1 have been, 
Thou hast left me ears to hear my Daugh- 
ter's voice, 
And arms to fold her to my heart Sub- 
missively 
Thee I adore, and find my rest in faith. 

Enter Oswald. 

OsTv. Herbert ! — confusion ! (aside). 

Here it is, my friend, 

[Presents the Horn. 
A charming beverage for you to carouse. 
This bitter night. 

Her. Ha ! Oswald, ten bright crosses 

I would have given, not many minutes 

gone. 
To have heard your voice. 

Osw. Your couch, I fear, good Baron, 
Has been but comfortless ; and yet that 

place 
When the tempestuous wind first drove us 

hither, 
Felt warm as a wren's nest. You'd bettei 

turn 
And under covert rest till break of day, 
Or till the storm abate. 
( To Marmauuke aside.) He has restored 

you. 
No doubt you have been nobly entertained ? 
But soft ! — how came he forth ? Th« 

Nightmare Conscience 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



57 



Has driven him out of harbor ? 

Mar. I believe 

^ou liave guessed right. 

Her. The trees renew their murmur . 
Come, let us house together. 

[Oswald conducts him to the dun- 
geon. 
Osw. {returns). Had I not 

..Esteemed you worthy to conduct the affair 
To its most fit conclusion, do you think 
1 would so long have struggled with my 

Nature, 
And smothered all that's man in me ?— 
away ! — 

"^Looking tcnvards the dungeon. 
This man's the property of him who best 
Can feel his crimes. I have resigned a 

privilege ; 
It now becomes my duty to resume it. 

Mar. Touch not a finger 

Oszv. What then must be done ? 

Mar. Which way soe'er 1 turn, I am per- 
plexed. 
Osw. Now, on my life, I grieve for you. 
The misery 
Of doubt is insupportable. Pity, tlie facts 
Did not admit of stronger evidence ; 
Twelve honest men, plain men, would set 

us right ; 
Their verdict would abolish these weak 
scruples. 
Mar. Weak 1 I am weak — there does my 
torment lie, 
Feeding itself 

Osw. Verily, when he said 

How his old heart would leap to hear her 

steps, 
You thought his voice the echo of Idonea's. 
Mar. And never heard a sound so ter- 
rible 
\ Osw. Perchance you thmk so now ? 

Mar I cannot do it : 

Twice did I spring to grasp his wither'd 

throat, 
Wlicn such a sudden weakness fell upon 

me, 
1 could have dropped asleep upon his 
breast. 
Osw Justice — is there not thunder in 
the word ? 
Shall it be law to stab the petty robber 
Wlio aims but at our purse ; and shall this 

Parricide — 
Worse is he far, far worse (if foul dishonor 
Be worse than death) to that confiding Crea- 
ture 
"Whom he to mors than filial love and duty 



Hath falsely trained — shall he fulfil his 

purpose ? 
But you are fallen. 

Mar. Fallen should I be indeed — 

Murder — perhaps a.sleep, blind, old, alone, 
Betrayed, in darkness ! Here to strike the 
blow — 

Away ! away ! 

[Flings ajvay his sword. 
Osw. Nay, I have done with you 

We'll lead him to the Couvent. He shall 

live, 
And she shall love him. With unquestioned 

title 
He shall be seated in his Barony, 
And we too chant the praise of his good 

deeds. 
I now perceive we do mistake our masters, 
And most despise tlie men who best car. 

teach us: 
Henceforth it shall be said that bad men 

only 
Are brave : Clifford is brave ; and thst old 

Man 
Is brave. 

• [Takifig Marmaouke's sti'ord 
and gii'ing it to him. 
To Clifford's arms he would have led 
His Victim — haply to this desolate house. 
Mar. {advancing to the dungeon). It 

must be ended ! — 
Osw. Softly ; do not rouse him ; 

He will deny it to the last. He lies 
Within the Vault, a spear's length to the 
left. 

[Marmaduke descends to the dun- 
geon . 
{A/one.) The Villains rose in mutiny to 

destroy me : 
I could have quelled tlie Cowards, but this 

Stripling 
Must needs step in, and save my life. The 

look 
With which he gave the boon — I see it 

now ! 
The same that tempted me to loathe the 

gift.— 
For this old venerable Gray-beard — faith 
'Tis his own fault if he hatli got a face 
Which doth play tricks with tliem that look 

on it ; 
'Twas this that put it in my thoughts — that 

countenance — 
His staff — his figure- -Murder ! — what, ot 

whom ? 
We kill a worn-out horse, and who but 
women 



^ 



POEMS WRITTEN EV YOUTH. 



Sigh at the deed? Hew down a wither'd 

tree, 
And none look grave but dotards. He may 

live 
To thank me for tliis service. Rainbow 

arches, 
Higliways of dreaming passion, have too 

long, 
Young^ as he is, diverted wish and hope 
P'rom the unpretending ground we mortals 

tread^ — 
Then shatter the delusion, break it up 
And set him free. What follows ? I have 

learned 
That things will work to ends the slaves o' 

the world 
Do never dream of. I ha-'c been what he — 
This Boy — when hcecomes forth with bloody 

hands — 
Might envy, and am now, — but he shall 

know 
What I am now— 

[^Gocs and listens at the dungeon. 
Praying or parleying ? — tut ! 
Is he not eyeless? He has been half dead 

These fifteen years 

Enter female Beggar with two or three of 

her Confatiious. 
(Turning abruptly.) Ha! speak — what 

Thing art thou ? 
{Recognizes her.) Heavens ! my good 
friend ! [ To her. 

Beg. Forgive me, gracious Sir ! — 

Osw. {to her companions.) Begone, ye 
Slaves, or I will raise a whirlwind 
And send ye dancing to the clouds, like 
leaves. [ They retire affrighted. 

Beg. Indeed, we meant no harm ; we 
lodge sometimes 
in this deserted Castle — / repent me. 

[Oswald goes to the dungeon — lis- 
tens — returns to the Beggar. 
Osw. Woman, thou hast a helpless In- 
fant — keep 
Thy secret for its sake, or verily 
That wretclied life of thine shall be the 
forfeit. 
Beg. I do repent me, Sir : I fear the 
curse 
Of that blind Man. 'Twas not your money, 

sir 

Osw. Begone! 

Beg. {going) There is some wicked deed 

in hand : [Aside. 

Would 1 could find the old Man and his 

Daughter. Exit Beggar. 



Marmaduke rc-cntcrs from, ike dungeon. 

Osw. It is all over then : — your foolish 
fears 
Are hushed to sleep, by your own act and 

deed. 
Made quiet as he is. 

Mar. Why came you down? 

And when I felt your hand upon my arm 
And spake to you, why did you give no 

answer ? 
Feared you to waken him ? he must have 

been 
In a deep sleep. I whispered to him thrice. 
There are the strangest echoes m that 
place ! 
Osw. Tut ! let them gabble till the day 

of doom. 
Mar. Scarcely, by groping, had I reached 
the Spot, 
When round my wrist I felt a cord drawn 

As if the blind Man's dog were pulling at 
it. 
Osw. But after that ? 
Mar. The features of Idonea 

Lurked in his face 

Osw. Pshaw ! Never to these eyes 

Will retribution show itself again 
With aspect so inviting. Why forbid me 
To share your triumph ? 
Mar. Yes, her very look. 

Smiling in sleep 

Osiv. A pretty feat of Fancy 1 

Mar. Though but a glimpse, it sent me 

to my prayers. 
Osw. Is he alive ? 

Mar. What mean you ? who alive ? 

Osw. Herbert ! since you will have it, 
Baron Herbert ; 
He who will gain his Scignory when 

Idonea 
Hath become Clifford's harlot — is he living .' 
Mar. The old Man in that dungeon is 

alive. 
Osiv. Henceforth, then, will I neveir ir 
camp or field 
Obey you more. Your weakness, to thr. 

Band, 
Shall be proclaimed : brave Men, they all 

shall hear it. 
You a protector of humanity ! 
Avenger you of outraged innocence ! 
Mar. 'Twas dark — dark as the grave 
yet did I see. 
Saw him— his face turned towards me; and 
I tell thee 



rOF.MS WRn'TKN IN YOUTH. 



59 



Idv)nea'.s filial coimlriKnir ■ \v:is tlure 
To baffle mc-it juit inc lo my leavers. 
Upwards I cast my eyes, and, throiigli a 

crevice, 
Beheld a star twinklinc; above my head. 
And, by the living God.. 1 could not flo it. 

S^Sinks exhausted. 

Osw. {lo himself). Now may 1 perish if 

this turn do more 

riian make me change mv course, 

( /') Marmadukf..) Dear Marmadukc, 

I\ly words were raslily spoken ; I recall 

them ; 
1 feel my error; shedding human blood 
Is T most serious thing. 

Afar. Not I alone, 

Thou too art deep in guilt. 

Os7V. We have indeed 

Been most presumptuous. Tliere is guilt 

in this, 

Else (ould so strong a mind have ever 

known [Heaven 

These trepidations ? Plam it is that 

Has marked out this foul Wretch as one 

whose crimes 
Must never come before a mortal judgment- 
seat, 
Or be chastised by mortal instruments. 
Afar. A thought that's worth a thousand 
worlds ! \^Gocs towards the duui^coji, 
Os-iu. I grieve 

i'hat, in my zeal, I have caused you so 
much pain. 
Afar. Think not of that ! 'tis over — we 

are safe. 
Os~a'. (as if to fiimself yet spcaJcing 
aloud). 

The truth is hideous, but how stifie it ! 

\Tiirning to Marmaduke. 

Give me your sword — nay, here are stones 

and fragments, 
The least of which would beat out a man's 

brains ; 
Or you might drive your head against that 

wall. 
Ko! this is not the place to hear the tale : 
vt should be told you pinioned in your bed. 
Or on some vast and solitary plain 
Blown to you from a trumpet. 

Mar. Why talk thus? 

Whate'er the monster brooding in your breast 
I cari- not : fear I have none, and cannot 

fear 

[ TJie sound of a horn is heard. 
That liorn again — 'Tis some one of our 

Troop ; 
What do they here ? Listen I 



Osic. What ! dogged /ike thieves ! 

Enter Walla( E and Lacy, &>c. 
Lacy. You are found at last, thanks to 
the vagrant Troop 
For not misleading us. 
Osw {looking at Wallace). That sulk- 
tic Graybcard — 
I'd rather sec my father's ghost. 

f^acy {to Marmaduke). My Captain, 
We come by order of the Hand. Belike 
You have not heard that Henry has at last 
Dissolved the Barons' League, and sent 

abroad 
His Sheriffs with fit force to reinstate 
The genuine owners of such Lands and 
Baronies [seized. 

,As, in these long commotions, have been 
His Power is this way tending. It befits us 
To stand upon our guard, and with our 

swords 
Defend the innocent. 

Mar. Lacy 1 we look 

Put at the surfaces of things ; we hear 
Of towns in flames, fields ravaged, younp 

and old 
Driven out in troops to want and nakedness ' 
Then grasp our swords and rusli npon a cure 
'i'hat flatters us, because it asks not thought 
The deeper malady is better hid ; 
The world is poisoned at the heart. 

Laey. What mean you ? 

Wal. {U'fiosc eye fias beeii fixed suspicious- 
ly upon Oswald). Ay, what is it you 
mean t 
Mar. Harkee, my friends ;— 

^Appearing gay 
Were there a Man who, being weak and 

helpless 
And most forlorn, should bribe a Mother, 

pressed 
By penury, to yield him up her Daughter, 
A little Infant, and instruct the Babe, 
Prattling upon his knee, to call hnu 

Father 

Lacy. Why, if his heart be tender, th?.r, 
oi^ence 
I could forgive him. 
Mar. {^oing on\ And should he make 
the Child 
An instrument of falsehood, should he teath 

her 
To stretch her arms, and dim the gladsome 

light 
Of infant playfulness with piteous look?* 

Of misery that was not 

Lacy. Troth, 'tis htrd- 

)i\.^ in a world like ours— •• 



6o 



rOr.MS WRlTrTiN IN YOUTH. 



Afar, {changing his tone). This self- 
same Man — 
Even while he printed kisses on the cheek 
Of this poor Babe, and taught its innocent 

tongue 
To lisp the name of father— could he look 
To the unnatural harvest of that time 
When he should give her up, a Woman 

grown, 
'I'll him who bid the highest in the market 
Oi foul pollution — 

Lacy. The whole visible world 

C'dutains not such a Monster ! 

Mar. For this purpose 

Should he resolve to taint her Soul by means 
Which bathe the limbs in sweat to think of 

them : 
Should he, by tales which would draw tears 

from iron, 
Work on her nature, and so turn compassion 
And gratitude to ministers of vice, 
And make the sjiotless spirit of filial love 
Prime mover in a plot to damn his Victim 

Doth soul and body 

IVai. 'Tis too horrible ; 

Oswald, what say you to it ? 

Lacy. ' Hew him down, 

And fling him to the ravens. 

Ma7'. But his aspect 

It is sr jicck, his countenance so venerable. 
Wai. (rvith an appearance of niisirnst). 

But how, what say you, Oswald.'' 
Lacy, {at the same jnoinent). Stab him, 

were it 
Before the Altar. 

Mar. What, if he were sick, 

Tottering upon the very verge of life, 

And old, and blind 

Lacy. Blind, say you ? 

Osiv. {coming forivaril). Are we men, 
K)y own we baby Spirits ? Genuine courage 
Is not an accidental quality, 
A thing dependent for its casual birth 
On opposition and impediment. 
Wisdom, if Justice speak the word, beats 

down 
The giant's strength ; and, at the voice of 

Justice, 
Spares not the worm. The giant and the 

worm — 
She weighs them in one scale. The wiles 

of womati. 
And craft of a^e, seducing reason, first 
Made weakness a protection, and obscured 
The moral shapes of things. His tender 

ones 
And helpless innocence — do they protect 



The infant lamb ? and shall the infirmities, 
Which have enabled this enormous Culprit 
To perpetrate his crimes,serve as a Sanctuary 
To cover him from punishment.'' Shame I — ■ 

Justice, 
Admitting no resistance, bends alike 
The feeble and the strong. She needs not 

here 
Her bonds and chains, which make tht. 

mighty feeble. 
— We recognize in this old Man a victim 
Prepared already for the sacrifice. 

Lacy. By heaven, his words are reason ! 
Osiv. Yes, my Friends, 

His countenance is meek and venerable ; 
And, by the Mass, to see him at his prayers!— 
I am of flesh and blood, and may I perish 
When my heart does not ache to think 

of it ! — 
Poor Victim I not a virtue under heaven 
But what was made an engine to ensnare 

thee : 
But yet I trust, Idonea, thou art safe. 
Lacy. Idonea ! 
Wal. How! what? you Idonea? 

\^To Marmaduke. 

Mar. Mi TIC . 

But now no longer mine. You know Lord 

Clifi^ord; 
He is the Man to whom the Maiden — pure 
As beautiful, and gentle and benign. 
And in her ample heart loving even me- 
Was to be yielded up. 

Lacy. Now, by the head 

Of my own child, this Man must die ; my 

hand, 
A worthier wanting, shall itself entwine 
In his gray hairs ! — 

Mar. {to Lacy). I love th*^ Father in thee 
You know me. Friends ; I have i heart to 

feel, 
And I have felt, more than perhaps becomes 

me 
Or duty sanctions. 

Lacy. We will have ample justice. 

Who are we, Friends ? Do we not live on 

ground 
Where souls are self-defended, free to grow 
Like mountain oaks rocked by the stormy 

wind ? 
Mark the Almighty Wisdom, which de- 
creed 
Tliis monstrous crime to oe laid open — here, 
Where Reason has an eye that she can use, 
And Men alone are Umpires. To the Camp 
He sliall be led, and there, the Country 

round 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH 



€i 



All gathered to the spot, in open day 
Shall Nature be avenged. 

Osw. 'Tis nobly thought ; 

His death will be a monument for ages. 
Afar, {to Lacy). 1 thank you for that 

hint. He shall be brought 
Before the Camp, and would that best and 

wisest 
Of every country might be present. There, 
His crime shall be proclaimed ; and for the 

rest 
It shall be done as Wisdom shall decide : 
Meanwhile, do you two hasten back and see 
That all is well prepared. 

Wal. We will obey you, 
(Aside). But softly ! we must look a little 

nearer. 
Aid?'. Tell where you found us. At some 

future time 
. will e.xplain the cause, [Exeiait. 



ACT III. 

Scene, t/ie door of the Hostel, a group of 
riigiims^^J bejore ; Idonea atid the 
Host among them. 

Host. Lady, you'll find your Father at the 

Convent 
As I have told you ! He left us yesterday 
With two Companions ; one of tiiem, as 

seemed. 
His most familiar friend. (Going). There 

was a letter 
Of winch I heard them speak, but that I 

fancy 
Has been orgottcn 
IdoH. (to Host). Farewell! 
Host. Gentle pilgrims, 

St. Cuthbert speed you on your holy errand. 
\^ExeuiitlGou}£.\ and 'PxXgnms. 

Scene, a desolate Afoor. 

Oswald \alofie). 

Osw. Carry him to the Camp ! Yes, to 

the Camp. 

Oh, Wisdom! a most wise resolve! and then, 

That half a word should blow it to the 

winds I 
This last device must eno my work. — 

Methinks 
It were a pleasant pastime to construct 
A scale and table of belief — as thus — 
Two columns, one for passion, one for proof ; 
Ear'^ vises as the other falls : and first, 



Passion a unit and against us — proof — 
Nay, we must travel in another path. 
Or we're stuck fast forever; — pussion, thei^. 
Shall be a unit for us; proof — no, passion l' 
We'll not insult thy majesty by time, 
Person, and place — the where, the when, the 

how, 
And all particulars that dull brains require 
To constitute the spiritless shape of Fact, 
They bow to, calling the idol,Demonstratioa 
A whipping to the Moralists who preach 
That misery is a sacred thing : for me, 
I know no cheaper engine to degrade a man, 
Nor any half so sure. This Stripling's 

mind 
Is shaken till the dregs float on the surface, 
And, in the storm and anguish of the heart, 
He talks of a transition in his Soul, 
And dreams that he is happy. We dissect 
The senseless body,and why not the mirvd .?— 
These are strange sights— the mind of man, 

upturned. 
Is in all natures a strange spectacle ; 
In some a hideous one — hem ! shall I stop ? 
No.— Thoughts and feelings will sink deep, 

but then 
They have no substance. Pass but a few 

minutes, 
And something shall be done which Memory 
May touch, whene'er her Vassals are at 

work. 

Enter Marmawke, from behind. 
Osw. (turning to meet him). But listen, 

for my peace 

Alar. Why, I believe you. 

Osw. But hear the proofs 

Afar. Ay, prove that when two peas 

Lie snugly in a pod, the pod must then 
Be larger than the peas— prove this — 'twere 

matter 
Worthy the hearing. Fool was I to dream 
It even could be otherwise I 

Osrv. Last night 

Wlien I returned with water from the brook. 
I overheard the Villains— every word 
Like red-hot iron burnt into my heart 
Said one, "It is agreed on. The blind Mao 
Shall feign a sudden illness, and the Girl, 
Who on her journey must proceed alone, 
Under pretence of violence, be seized. 
She IS,'' continued tlic detested Slave, 
'' She is right willing — strange if she were 

not ! — 
They say, Lord Clifford is a savage man ; 
But, taith, to see him in his silken tunic, 
Flitting his low voice to the minstrel's harp, 
There's witchery in't. I never knew a maid 



a 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



That could withstand it. True," con- 
tinued he, 
" When we arranged the affair, she wept a 

httle 
(Not the less welcome to my Lord for that) 
And said, ' My Father he will have it so.' " 
Mar. I am your hearer. 
Osw. This I caught, and more 

That may not be retold to any ear. 
The obstinate bolt of a small iron door 
Detained them near the gateway of the 

Castle. 
By a dim lantern's light I saw that wreaths 
Of flowers were in their hands, as if de- 
signed 
For festive decoration ; and they said. 
With brutal laughter and most foul allusion. 
Thac they should share the banquet with 

their Lord 
And his new Favorite. 

Mar. Misery !— 

Oszv I knew 

How you would be disturbed by this dire 

news, 
And therefore chose this solitary Moor, 
Here to impart the tale, of which, Jast night, 
I strove to ease my mind, when our two 

Comrades, 
Commissioned by the Band, burst in upon 

us. 
Mar. Last night, when moved to lift the 

avenging steel, 
I did ix'lieve all tilings were shadows — yea, 
Living or dead all things were bodiless, 
( )r but the mutual mockeries of body, 
'Vill that same star summoned me back 

again. 
Now i could laugh till my ribs ached. Oh 

Fool! 
To let a creed, built in the heart of things, 
Disolve before a twinkling atom I — Oswald, 
1 could fetch lessons out of wiser schools 
Than you have entered, were it worth the 

pains 
Vj»ung as I am, I might go forth a teacher, 
(\iid you should see how deeply 1 could 

reas(jn 
Of love in all its shapes, beginnings, ends ; 
Of moral qualities in their diverse aspects ; 
Of actions, and their laws and tendencies. 

Osw. You take it as it merits 

Mar. One a King, 

General or Cham, Sultan or Emperor, 
Strews twenty acres of good meadow-ground 
Witii carcases, in lineament and shape 
\nd substance, nothing differing from Ins 

own, 



But that they cannot stand up of then* 

selves , 
Another sits i* th' sun, and by the hour 
Floats kingcups in the brook — a Hero one 
We call, and scorn the other as Time's 
spendthrift ; [ground 

But have they not a world of common 
lo occupy — both fools, or wise alike, 
Each in his way i* 

Oszv. Troth, ( begin to think so. 

Mar. Now for the corner-stone of my 
philosophy : 
I would not givt a denier for the man 
Who, on such provocation as this earth 
Yields, could not chuck his babe beneath the 

chin. 
And send it with a fillip to his grave. 
Osiv. Nay, you leave nie behind 
Mar. 'ihat such a One, 

So pious in demeanor I in his look 

So saintly and so pure! Haik'ee, my 

Friend, 
I'll plant myself beforo Lord Cliffords 

Castle, 
A surly mastiff kennels at the gate. 
And he shall howl and I will laugh, a medley 
Most tunable. 

Osw In faith, a pleasant scheme; 

But take your sword along with yon^ for that 
Mit^ht in such neighborhood tind seemly 

use. 
But first, how wash our hands of this old 
Man? 
Mar. Oh yes, that mole, th.at vijter in 
the path ; 
Plague on my memory, him I had forgotten. 
Oszv. You know we left him sitting— see 

him yonder. 
Mar. Ha ! ha !— 

Oszv. As 'tv/ill be but a moment's work, 
I will stroll on ; you follow when 'tis done. 
\Excu>it. 

Scene cJians;es to anotJicr part of the Moor 
at a short ^//.c/rt'wrr— Hi.RBERT is dis- 
coi'ercd seated on a stone. 

Her. A sound of laughter, too !— 'tis well 

— I feared. 
The Stranger had some pitiable sorrow 
Pressing upon his solitary heart. 
Hush !— 'tis the feeble and earth-loving wind 
That creeps along the bolls of the crisp 

heather. 
Alas! 'tis cold — I shiver in ihc sunshine - 
What r:in this mean ( There is a ysalm tha! 



POEMS WRITTEN I IV YOUTH. 



63 



Of God's parental mejcies — with Idonea 
1 used to sing it — Listen ! — what toot is there? 

Enter Marmaduke. 

Mar. {aside — looking at Herbert.) 
And I have loved this Man ! and she 
hath loved him ! 
A nd I loved her, and she loves the Lord Clif- 
ford ! 
And there it ends : — if this be not enough 
10 make mankind merry for evermore, 
Then plain it is as day, that eyes were mr.de 
For a wise purpose — verily to weep with ! 

\^Looki}ig round. 
A pretty prospect this, a masterpiece 
Of iNTature, finished with most curious skill ! 
{To Herbert.) Good Baron, have you 

ever practised tillage ? 
Pray tell me what this land is worth by the 
acre .'' 
//er. How glad I am to hear your voice I 
I know not 
Wherein I have offended you ; — last night 
I found in you the kindest of Protectors ; 
This morning, wh^-n 1 spoke of weariness, 
You from my s'.ioi! der took my scrip and 

threw It 
About yo-ir own ; ' );it for these two hours 

past 
Once only have yu 1 spoken, when the lark 
Whined from an nng the fern beneath our 

feet, 
And I. no cowar/ in my better days, 
Was almost terr fied. 

A/'^.r. That'j- excellent ! — 

P/ )> u betiiou/ /it yon 01 me many ways 
' , whicli a maj m.iy come to his end, whose 

crimes 
llavi nnised ill Nature up against him — 
pshaw ! - 
Her. For mercy's sake, is nobody in 
siglit? 
I No traveller, peasant, herdsman ? 
, A/,ir. Not a soul : 

Here is a tr e, ragged, and bent, and bare, 
I That turn:; its goat'sbeard tlakes of pea- 
green / loss 
^rom tlie » ;ern breathing of the rough sea- 
wind ; 
This liave ve, but no other company: 
Conimep'' lie to the place. If a man should 

r'' 

Anc .^ave his body here, it were all one 
i-< he were twenty fathoms underground. 

Her. Wliere is our Cijmmon Friend ? 

Mar. A ghost, methinks — 

The spirit of a murdered man, for instance — 



Might have fine room to ramble about here, 
A grand domain to scueak and gibber in. 
//er. Lost Man ! if thou have any close- 
pent guilt 
Pressing upon thy heart, and this the hour 

Of visitation 

Mar. A bold word from you ! 

Her. Restore him. Heaven ! 
Mar. The desperate Wretch ! — A Flower. 
Fairest of all flowers, was she once, bi.t now 
They have snapped her from the stem— 

Poh ! let her lie 
Eesoiled with mire, and let the houseless 

snail 
Feed on her leaves. You knew her well — 

• ay, there. 
Old Man ! you were a very Lynx, you knew 

The worm was in her 

Her Mercy ! Sir, what mean you ? 

Mar. You have a Daughter ! 
Her Oh tluit she were here I 

She hath an eye that sinks into all hearts. 
And if I have in aught offended you, 
Soon would her gentle voice mal<e peace 
between us. 
Mar. {aside.) I do believe he weeps — I 
could weep too — 
There is a vein of her voice that runs 

through his ; 
Even such a Man my fancy bodied forth 
From the first monient that 1 loved the 

Maid ; 
And for his sake I loved her more: these 

tears — 
I did not think that aught was left in me 
Of what I have been — yes, I thank tiiee, 

Heaven ! 
One happy fliought has passed across my 

mind. 
— It may not be — I am cut off from man ; 
No more shall I be man — no more shall I 
Have human feelings !—( 7"^ Herbert)— 

Now, for a little more 
About your daughter ! 

Her. Troojjs of armed men, 

Met in the roads, would bless us ; little 

children. 
Rushing along in the full tide of play. 
Stood silent as we passed them ! 1 have 

heard 
The boisterous carman, in the miry road. 
Check his loud whip and hail us with miid 

voice. 
And speak with milder voice to his poor 
beasts. 
Mar. And whither were you going ' 
Her. Learn, young Maa, 



64 



POEMS WRITTEN- /AT YOU TIT. 



To fear the virtuous, and reverence misery, 
Wliether too mucli for patience, or, like 

mine, 
Softened till it becomes a gift of mercy. 
Mar. Now. this is as it should be ! 
Her. I am weak ! — 

My Daughter does not know how weak I 

am ; 
And, as thou see'st, under the arch of heaven 
Here do I stand, alone, to helplessness. 
By the good God, our common Father, 

doomed ! — 

But I had once a spirit and an arm 

Alar. Now, for a word about your Barony : 
I fancy when you left the Holy Land, 
And came to — what's your title — eh ? your 

claims 
'"Vere undisputed ! 

Her. Like a mendicant, 

Whom no one comes to meet, I stood 

alone ; — 
1 murmured — but, remembering Him who 

feeds 
The pelican and ostrich of the desert, 
From my own threshold I looked up to 

Heaven 
And did not want glimmerings of quiet hope. 
So, from the court I passed, and down the 

brook. 
Led by its murmur, to tlie ancient oak 
I came ; and when I felt its cooling shade, 
I sat me down, and cannot but believe — 
While in my lap I held my little Babe 
And clasped her to my heart, my heart that 

ached 
More with delight than grief — I heard a 

voice 
Such as by Cherith on Elijah ctilled : 
It said, " I will be with thee." A little boy, 
A shepherd-lad, ere yet my trance was gone. 
Hailed us as if he had been sent from 

heaven, 
And said, with tears, that he would be our 

guide : 
1 had a better guide — that innocent Babe — 
Her, who hath saved me, to this hour, from 

harm, 
From cold, from hunger, penury, and death ; 
To whom I owe the best of all the good 
I have, or wish for, upon earth — and more 
And higher far than lies within earth's 

bounds : 
Therefore I bless her: when I think of Man, 
I bless her with sad spirit, — when of God, 
1 bless her in the fulness of my joy ! 
Mar. The name of daughter in his mouth, 

he prays! 



With nerves so steady, that the very flies 
Sit unmolested on his staff. — Innocent ! — 
If he were innocent — then he would tremble 
And be disturbed, as I am. { Turning 

aside.) I have read 
In Story, what men now alive have wit- 
nessed, 
How, when the People's mind was racked 

with doubt. 
Appeal was made to the great Judge : the 

Accused 
With naked feet walked over burning plough- 
shares. 
Here is a Man by Nature's hand prepared 
For a like trial, but more merciful. 
Why else have I been led to this bleak 

Waste 1 
Bare is it, without house or track, and des- 
titute 
Of obvious shelter, as a shipless sea. 
Here will I leave him — here— -All-sccing 

God! 
Such as he is, and sore perplexed as I am, 
I will commit liim to this final Ordeal ' — 
He heard a voice — a shepherd-lad came to 

him 
And was his guide ; if once, v/hy not again. 
And in this desert? If never — then the 

whole 
Of what he says, and looks, end does, and is, 
Makes up one damning falseliocd Leave 

him here 
To cold and hunger ! — Pain is of the heart 
And what are a few throes of bodily suffer 

ing 
If they can waken one pang of remorse? 

[Goes up to Hi'.Rr.r.RT. 
Old Man ! my wrath is as a flan^.c burnt out. 
It cannot be rekindled. Thou art b.ere 
Led by my hand to save thee from perdition, 

Thou wilt have time to breathe and think 

Her Oh, Mercy! 

Mar. I know the need that all men have 
of mercy. 
And therefore leave thee to a righteous judg 
ment. 
Her. My Child, my blessed Child ! 
Mar. No more of that; 

Thou wilt have many guides if thou art in- 
nocent ; 
Yea, from the utmost corners of the earth, 
That Woman will come o'er this Waste to^ 
save thee 

[He pauses and looks at Hkrbert's 
staff. 
Ha ! what is here ? and carved by her own 
hand ! [Reads upon the staff 



FOEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



H 



" I am eyes to the blind, saith the Lord. 
He that puts his trust in nic shall not fail I " 
Yes, be it so : — repent and be forgiven — 
Gud and that staff are now thy only guides 
[//«? leaves Herbert on ilie Moor. 

Scene, an emmence^ a Beacon ott tlie 
summit. 
Lacy, Wallace, Lennox, &c., &c. 

Several of the Band {confusedly). But 

patience ! 
One of the Band. Curses on that Traitor, 
Oswald !— 
Our Captain made a prey to foul device I — 
Ltn.{toWal.) His tool, the wandering 
Beggar, made last night 
A plain confession, such as leaves no doubt. 
Knowing what otherwise we know too well, 
Tliat she revealed the truth Stand by me 

now ; 
For rather would I have a ne?t of vipers 
Between my breast-plate and my skin, than 

make 
Oswald my special enemy, if you 
Deny me your support. 

Lacy. W^ have been fooled-^ 

But for the motive? 

Wal. Natures sucli as his 

Spin motives out of their own bowels, 

Lacy ! 
I learn'd this when I was a Confessor. 
I know him well ; there needs no other mo- 
tive 
Than that most strange incontmence in 

crime 
Which haunts this Oswald. Power is life 

to him 
And breath and being , where he cannot 

govern. 
He will destroy. 
Lacy. To have been trapped like 
moles ! — 
Yes, you are right, we need not hunt for 

motives ; 
There is no- crime from which this man 

would shrink ; 
He recks not human law ; and I have no- 
ticed 
That often when the name of God is uttered, 
A sudden blankness overspreads his face. 
Lcn Yet, reasoner as he is, hi:: pride has 
built 
Some uncouth superstition of its own, 
Wal. I have seen traces of it. 
Len. Once he headed 

A band of Pirates in i N.orway seas ; 



And when the King of Denmark summoned 

him 
To the oath of fealty, I well remember, 
'Twas a strange answer that he made ; he 

said, 
" I hold of Spirits, and the Sun in heaven.'' 
Lacy. He is no madman. 
Wal. A most subtle doctol 

Were that man, who could draw the line 

that parts 
Pride and her daughter, Cruelty, from Mad- 
ness, 
That shotild be scourged, not pitied. Rest- 
less Minds, 
Such Minds as find amid their fellow-men 
No heart that loves them, none that they* 

can love, 
Will turn perforce and seek for sympathy 
In dim relation to imagined Beings. 

One of the Band. What if he mean to 
offer up our Captain 
An expiatfon and a sacrifice 
To those infernal fiends ! 

Wal Now, if the event 

Should be as Lennox has foretold, then 

swear, 
My Friends, his heart shall have as many 

wounds 
As there are daggers here 

Lacy. What need of swearing 1 

One of the Band. Let us away ! 
Another. Away I 

A third. Hark ! how the horns 
Of those Scotch Rovers echo through the 
vale. 
Lacy Stay you behind ; and when the 
sun is down, 
Light up this beacon 

Otie of the Band. You shall be obeyed, 
[ They go out together. 

Scene, the Wood on the edge of the Moor, 
Marmaduke (alone). 

Mar. Deep, deep and vast, vast beyond 

human thought. 
Yet calm.— I could believe-, that there was 

here 
The only quiet heart on earth. In terror, 
Remembered terror, there is peace and rest 

Enter Oswald. 

Os7v. Ha f my dear Captain. 
Mar. A later meeting, Oswald, 

Would have been better timed. 

Osw. Alone, I see," 



66 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



Ton have done your duty I had hopes, 

which now 
I feel that you will justify. 

Mar. I had fears, 

From which I have freed myself — but 'lis 

my wish 
To be alone, and therefore we must part 
Osw. Nay, then — I am mistaken. There's 

a weakness 
About you still ; you talk of solitude — 
I am your friend. 

Mar. What need of this assurance 

At any time ? and why given now .? ■ 

Osw. Because 

You are now m truth my Master ; you have 
, taught me 

What there is not another living man 
Had strength to teach, — and therefore 

gratitude 
Is bold, and would relieve itself by praise. 
Mar. Wherefore press this on mc i* 
Osw. .Because I feel 

That you have shown, and by a signal in- 
stance, 
How they who would be just must seek the 

rule 
By diving for it into their own bosoms. 
To-day you have thrown off a tyranny 
That lives but in the torpid acquiescence 
Of our emasculated souls, the tyranny 
Of the world's masters, with the musty 

rules 
By which they uphold their craft from age 

to age • 
You have obeyed the only law that sense 
Submits to recognize ; the immediate law, 
From the clear light of circumstances, 

flashed 
Upon an independent Intellect. 
Henceforth aew prospects open on your 

path ; 
Your faculties should grow with the de- 
mand , 
I still will be your friend, will cleave to you 
Through good and evil, obloquy and scorn. 
Oft as they dare to follow on your steps. 
Ma."". I would be left alone. 
Osw. (exultingly.) 1 know your motives ! 
I am not of the world's presumptuous 

judges. 
Who damn where they can neither see nor 

feel, 
With a hard-hearted ignorance ; your strug- 

gles 
I witnessed, and now hail your victory. 
Mar. Spare me awhile that greeting. 
Osw. It may be, 



That some there are, squeamish half-think- 
ing cowards, 
Who will turn pale upon you, call you 

murderer. 
And you will walk in solitude among them. 
A mighty evil for a strong-built mind ! — 
Join twenty tapers of unequal height 
And light them joined, and you will sec the 

less 
How 'twill burn down the taller; and they 

all 
Shall prey upon the tallest. Solitude ! — 
The Eagle lives in Solitude I 

Mar Even so. 

The SparrTV -.o on the house-top, and I, 
The weak,-;s : of God's creatures, stand re- 
solved 
To abide the issue of my act, alone. 

Os7v. Now would you .'' and forever?— 
My young Friend, 
As time idvar.ccs cither ive become 
Tlie prey jr masters oi our own past deeds- 
Fellowship vve tiiust liave, ivilling or no; 
And if good Angels '"ail, ilack in their duty, 
Substitutes, turn jur i'aces vvherc vve may. 
Are still forthcoming , 5ome which, though 

■ they bear 
111 names, :an render no ill services, 
In recompense for what themselves re- 
quired. 
So meet extremes in this mysterious world, 
\n 1 3ppositcs thus melt into 2ach otiicr. 
ALrr. Time, since Man first drew breath, 
has never moved 
With sucli a weight upon his wings as now; 
But they will soon be lightened, 

Os7v. Ay, lock up- 

cast round you your mind's eye, and you 

will learn 
Fortitude is the child of Enterprise: 
Great actions move our admiration, chiefly 
Because they carry in themselves an earnest 
That we can suffer ajreatly 

Mar. Very true. 

Osrv. Action is transitory — a step, .. blow, 
The motion of a muscle — this way or that — 
'Tis done, and in the after-vacancy 
We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed: 
Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, 
And shares the natii'-e of infinity. 
Mar Truth— and I feel it 
Osw What if you had bid 

Eternal farewell to unmingled joy 
And the light danckig of the thoughtlesj 

heart : 
It IS the toy of fools, and little fit 
For such a world as this. The wise abjuri 



POEMS WRITTEN TV YOUTH. 



6T 



All thoughts whose idle composition lives 
[r\ tiie entire fore;ctf illness of pain. 
~I see 1 have disturbed you. 
Mar By no means. 

Osiv. Compassion ! — pity ! — pride can do 
without them ; 
And what if you should never know them 

more ! — 
He is a puny soul who, feelint; pain, 
Finds ease because another feels it too 
If e'er 1 open out this heart of mine 
It shall be for a nobler end — -to teach 
And not to purchase puling sympathy. 
— Nay, you are pale. 

Mar. It may be so. 

Osw Remorse — 

It cannot live with thought* think on, 

think on, 
And it will die. What ! in this universe, 
Where the least things control the greatest, 

where 
The faintest breath that breathes can move 

a world • 
What' feel remorse, wlicre, if a cat had 

sneezed, 
A leaf had fallen, the thing had never been 
Whose very shadow gnaws us to the vitals 
Afar. Now, whither are you wandering ? 
That a man, 
So used to suit his language to the time, 
Should thus so widely differ from himself — 
It is most strange. 

Osw Murder ! — -what's in the word ! — 
J have no cases by me ready made 
To fit all deeds Carry him to the 

Camp .' — 
A shallow project ;^you of late have seen 
More deeply, tauc;]it us that the institutes 
Of Nature, by a cunning usurpation 
Banished from human intercourse, exist 
Only in our relations to the brutes 
That make the fields their dwelling. If a 

snake 
Crawl from beneath our feet we do not ask 
A license to destroy him ; our good gov- 
ernors 
Hedge in the life of every pest and plague 
That bears the shape of man ; and for what 
purpose, [tion ? — 

But to protect themselves from extirpa- 
This flimsy barrier you have overleaped. 
Mar. My Office is fulfilled — the Man is 
now 
Delivered to the Judge of all things. 
Osw. Dead ! 

Mar. I have borne my burthen to its des- 
tined end. 



Os7v. This instant we'll return to oui 
Companions — 
Oh how J long to see their faces again ) 

Enter Idonea, with Pilgrims who cotitinuc 
thctr journey, 

I don. {after some time.) What. Marma- 
duke! now thou art mine forever 
And Oswald, too ' i^To Marm.aduke.) On 

will we to my Father 
Witii the glad tidings which this day hath 

brought ; 
We'll go together, and, such proof received 
Of his own rights restored, his gratitude 
To ( iod above will make him feel for ours 
Os\i', 1 interrupt you ? 
Idon. Think not so. 

Mar Idonea, 

Tiiat I should ever live to see this moment ! 
Idon, Forgive me. — Oswald knows it 
all — he knows, 
Each word of that unhappy letter fell 
Asa blood drop from my heart. 

Osw. 'Twas even so. 

Mar. I have much to say, but for whose 

ear ? — not thine. 
Idon. Ill can I bear that look — I'lead for 
me, 0;,wald ! 
Ynu arc my Father's Friend. 
{To Marmaduke.) Alas, you know not, 
And never can you know, how much he 

loved me 
Twice had he been to mc a father, twice 
Had given me breath, and was I not to be 
His daughter, once his daughter ? could I 

withstand 
His pleading face, and feel his clasping 

arms, 
And hear his prayer that I would not forsake 
him 

In his old age {Hides her face. 

Mar. Patience — Heaven grant me pa- 
tience ! — 
She weeps, she weeps — vty brain shall burn 

for hours 
Ere / can shed a tear. 

Idon . I was a woman ; 

And, balancing the hopes that are the 

dearest 
To womankind with duty to my Father, 
I yielded up thos-.: precious hopes, which 

naught 
On earth could else have wrested from 

me ,— if erring. 
Oh let me be forgiven ! 

Mar, I do forgive the*. 



68 



rOEMS WRIT! EN IN YOUTH. 



Idon. Rut take me to your arms — this 
breast, alas 1 
It throbs, and you have a heart that does not 
feel it. 
Mar. {exultingly. ) She is innocent. 

[//i? oil braces her. 
Osu\ [aside.) Were I a Moralist, 

j should make wondrous revolution here ; 
It were a quaint e:qieriment to show 
The beauty of truth — \^Ad dressing them. 
I see I mtcrrupt you : 
I shall have business with you, Marmaduke; 
Follow me to the Hostel. VE.xit Oswald. 

Idon. Marmaduke, 

This is a happy day. My Father soon 
Shall sun himself before his native doors ; 
The lame, the hungry, will be welcome 

there. 
No more sliall he complain of wasted 

strength, 
Of thoughts that fail, and a decaying heart ; | 
His good works will be balm and life to him. 
Mar. This is most stiangc! — I know not 
what it was, [said, 

But there was something which most plainly 
That thou wert innocent. 

Ido}i. How innocent ! — 

Oh heavens! you've been deceived. 

Mar. I'hou art a Woman 

To bring perdition on the universe. 

Idon. Already I've been punished to the 
height 
Of my offence. ^Smiling affectionately. 

1 see you love me still, 
The labors of my hand are still your joy ; 
Bethink you of the hour when on your 

shoulder 
I hung this belt. 

[Poititiiig to the belt on which Tvas 
suspended Herkekt's scrip. 
Mar. Mercy of Heaven. \Siitks. 

Idon. What ails you ! [Distractedly. 

Mar. The scrip that held his food, and I 
forgot 
To give it back again ! 

Idoji. What mean 3'our words ? 

Mar. I know not what I said — all may be 

well. 
[don. That smile hath life in it ! 
Mar. This road is perilous ; 

1 will attend you to a Hut that stands 
Near the wood's edge — rest there to-night, I 

pray you : 
For me, I have business, as you hear, with 

Oswald, 
But will return to you by break of dav> 

[Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

Scene, A desolate prospect— a ridge 0} 
rocks — a Chapd on the summit of one — • 
Moon behind the rocks — night stormy — 
irregular sonnd of a bell — Herbert 
enters exhausted. 

Her. That Chapel-bell in mercy seemad 

\o guide me, 
But now it mocks my steps ; its fitful stroke 
Can scarcely be the work of human hands. 
Hear me, ye Men, upon the cliffs, if such 
There be who pray nightly before the Altar. 
Oh that I had but strength to reach the 

plr:cc ! 
My Child— my child— dark— dark— I famt 

— this wind — 
These stifling blasts— God help me \ 
Enter Eldred. 
F.ld. Better this bare rock, 

Though it was tottering over a man's head. 
Than a tight case of dungeon walls for 

shelter 
From such rough dealing 

YA moaning voice is heard. 

Ha ! what sound is that.'' 

Trees creaking in the wind (but none are 

here) 
Send forth such noises — and that weary 

bell ! . . . 

Surely some evil Spirit abroad to-night 
Is ringing it — 'twould stop a Saint in prayer, 
And that — what is it .? never was sound so 

like 
A human groan. Ha! what is here? F or 

Man- 
Murdered! alas! speak — speak, I am your 

friend : 
No answer — hush — lost wretch, he lifts his 

hand 
And lays it to his heart — [Kneels to hint) 

I pray you speak ! 
What has befallen you ? 

Her. [feebly.) A stranger has done this, 
And in the arms of a stranger I must die. 
Eld. Nay, think not so ; come, let me 

raise you up : [J^atses him 

This is a dismal place — well — that is well— 
I was too fearful — take me for your guide- 
And your support — my hut is not far oH. 

{Draws him gently off the stage. 

Scene, a room in the Hostel — Marma- 
duke a7td Oswald. 
Mar. But for Idonea ! — 1 have cause It 
think 



Poems written in yovtji. 



09 



That she is innocent. 

Os^v. Leave that thought awhile, 

As one of those beliefs which in their hearts 
Lovers lock up as pearls, thougli oft no 

better 
Tlian feathers clinging to theii points of 

passion. 
This clay's event has laid on nie the duty 
Of opening out my story ; you nuist hear it, 
And without further preface. — In my youtii, 
Except for tliat abatement which is paid 
By envy as a tribute to desert, 
1 was the pleasure of all hearts, the darling 
Of every tongue — as you are now. You've 

heard 
That 1 embarked for Syria. On our voyage 
Was hatched among the crew a foul Con- 
spiracy 
Against my honor, in thewluch our Captain 
Was, 1 believjj, prime Agent. The wind 

fell ; 
We lay becalmed week after week, until 
The water of the vessel was exhausted ; 
I felt a double fever in my veins, 
Yet rage suppressed itself : — to a deep still- 
ness 
Did my pride tame my pride ; — for many 

days. 
On a dead sea under a burning sky, 
1 brooded o'er my injuries, deserted 
By man and nature ; — if a breeze had blown. 
It might have found its way into my heart, 
And 1 had been — 'ao matter — do you mark 

nie .f" 
Mar. Quick — to the point — if any untold 

crime 
Doth haunt your memory. 

Osw. Patience, hear me further ! — 

One day in silence did we drift at noon 
By a bare rock, narrow, and white, and bare ; 
No food was there, no drink, no grass, no 

shade, 
No tree, nor jutting eminence, nor form 
Inanimate large as the body of man. 
Nor any living thing whose lot of life 
Might stretch beyond the measure of one 

moon. 
T(j dig for water on the spot, the Captain 
Landed with a small troop, myself being 

one : 
There I reproached him with his treachery. 
Imperious at all times, his temper rose , 
He struck me ; and that instant had I 

killed him. 
And put an end to his insolence, but my 

Comrades 
Rushed in between us ; then did I insist 



(All hated him, and I was stung to mad 

ness) 
That we should leave him there, alive ! — we 
did so. 
Mar. And he was famished.? 
Osw. Naked was the spot ; 

Methinks I see it now — how in the sun 
Its stony surface glittered like a shield ; 
And in tliat miserable place we left him. 
Alone but for a swarm of minute creatures 
Not one of which could help him while alive. 
Or mourn him dead. 

Mar. A man by men cast off. 

Left without burial ! nay, not dead nor dy- 
ing, 
But standing, walking, stretching forth his 

arms. 
In all things like ourselves, but in the agony 
With which he called for mercy ; and — even 

so — 
He was forsaken ? 

Osiv. There is a power in sounds : 

The cries he uttered might have stojjped 
the boat 

That bore us through the water 

Mar . You returned 

Upon that dismal hearing — did you not ? 
Osu>. Some scoffed at him with hellish 
mockery, 
And laughed so loud it seemed that the 

smooth sea 
Did from some cUstant region echo us. 
Mar. We all are of one blood, our vjins 
are filled 
At the same poisonous fountain! 

Osw. 'Twas an island 

Only by sufferance of the winds and waves. 
Which with their foam could cover it at will. 
1 know not how he perished ; but the calm. 
The same dead calm, continued many day?,. 
Afar. But his own crime had brought uii 
him this doom. 
His wickedness prepared it; these expedi- 
ents 
Are terrible, yet ours is not the fault. 

Osiv. The man was famished, and was 

innocent ! 
Mar. Impossible ! 

Osw. The man had never wronged me. 
Mar. Banish the thought, crush it, and 
be at peace. 
His guilt was marked — these thing.'; could 

never be 
Were there not eyes that see, and for good 

ends. 
Where ours arc baffled. 

Oiw. I had been deceived. 



70 



POEMS WRITTEN JN VOUTTT. 



Mar. And from that hour the miserable 

man 
No more was heard of ? 

Osw. I liad been betrayed. 

Mar. And he found no deliverance ! 
Osw. The Crew 

Gave me a hearty welcome ; they had laid 
The plot to rid themselves, at any cost, 
Of a tyrannic Master whom they loathed. 
So we pursued our voyage : when we 

landed, 
The tale was spread abroad : my power at 

once 
Shrunk from me ; plans and schemes, and 

lofty hopes — 
All vanished. I gave way— do you attend ? 
Mar. The Crew deceived you ? 
Osiv. Nay, command yourself. 

Mar. It is a dismal night — how the wind 

howls ! 
Osw. I hid my head within a Convent, 

there 
Lay passive as a dormouse in mid winter. 
That was no life for me — 1 was o'erthrown 
But not destroyed. 

Mar. The proofs — you ought to have 

seen 
The guilt — have touched it— felt it at your 

heart — 
As I have done. 

Osw. A fresh tide of Crusaders 

Drove by the place of my retreat : three 

nights 
Did constant meditation dry my blood; 
Three sleepless nights I passed in sounding 

on, 
Through words and things, a dim and peril- 
ous way : 
And, wheresoe'er I turned me, I beheld 
A slavery compared to wiiich the dungeon 
And clanking chains are jierfect liberty. 
You understand me — 1 was comforted; 
I h.iv/ that every possible shape of action 
Might lead to good — I saw it and burst 

f(jrth, 
Tliirsting for some of those exploits that fill 
Tlie earth for sure redemption of lost peace. 
\^Markhig Marmaduke's countenance. 
Nay, you have had the worst. Ferocity 
Subsided in a moment, like a wind 
That drops down dead out of a sky it vexed. 
And yet I had within me evermore 
A salient spring of energy ; I mounted 
From action up to action with a mind 
That never rested — without meat or drink 
Have I lived many days — my sleep was 

bound 



To purposes of reason — not a dream 
But had a continuity and substance 
That waking life had never power to give. 
Mar. O wretched Human-kind! — Until 

the mystery 
Of all this world is solved, well may we envy 
The worm, that, underneath a stone whose 

weight 
Wonld crush the lion's paw with mortal 

anguish, 
Doth lodge, and feel, and coil, and sleep, in 

safety. 
Fell not the wrath of Heaven upon those 

traitors."" 
Osiv. Give not to them a thought. From 

Palestine 
We marclied to .Syria:' oft I left the Camp, 
Wlien all that multitude of hearts was still, 
And followed on. through woods of gloomy 

cedar, 
Into deep chasms troubled by roaring 

streams ; 
Or from the top of Lebanon surveyed 
The moonlight desert, and the moonlight 

sea ; 
In these my lonely wanderings I perceived 
What mighty objects do impress their forms 
To elevate our intellectual being ; 
And felt, if aught on earth deserves a curse, 
'Tis that worst principle of ill which dooms 
A thing so great to perish self-consumed. 
— So much for my remorse ! 

Mar. Unhappy Man ! 

Osiv. When from these forms 1 turned to 

contemplate 
The World's opinions and her usages, 
I seemed a Being who had passed alone 
Into a region of futurity, 

Whose natural element was freedom 

Mar. Stop 

I may not, cannot, follow thee. 

Osw. You must 

I had been nourished by the sickly food 
Of popular applause. I now perceiveil 
That we are praised, only as men in us 
Do recognize some image of themselves, 
An abject counterpart of what they are. 
Or the empty thing that they would wish to 

be. 
I felt that merit has no surer test 
Than obloquy : that, if we wish to serve 
The world in substance, not deceive by show, 
We must become obnoxious to its hate, 
Or fear disguised in simulated scorn. 
Mar. I j)ity, can forgive, you ; but those 

wretches — 
That monstrous perfidy] 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



7i 



Osw. Keep down your wrath. 

False Shame discarded, spurious Fame de- 
spised, 
Twin sisters both of Ignorance, I found 
Life stretched before me smooth as some 

broad way 
Cleared for a monarch's progress. Priests 

might spin 
Their veil, but not for me — 'twas in fit place 
Among its kindred cobwebs. I laa been, 
And in that dream had left my native iands, 
One of Love s simple bondsmen— the soft 

chain 
Was off forever ; and the men, from wliom 
This liberation came, you would destroy : 
Join me in thanks for their blind services. 
Mar. 'Tis a strange aching that, when 

we would curse 
And cannot. — You have betrayed me — I 

have dune — 
I am content — I know that he is guiltless — 
That both are guiltless, without spot or 

stain, 
Mntually consecrated. Poor old Man ! 
And 1 had heart for this, because thou 

lovedst 
Her who from very infancy had been 
Light to thy path, warmth to thy blood ! — 

Together [ Tnryiing to Oswald. 

We propped his steps, he leaned upon us 

both. 
Osw. Ay, we are coupled by a chain of 

adamant ; 
Let us be fellow-lalwrers, then, to enlarge 
Man's intellectual empire. We subsist 
In slavery ; all is slavery ; we receive 
Laws, but we ask not whence those laws 

have come ; 
We need an inward sting to goad us on. 
Mar. Have you betrayed me 1 Speak to 

that. 
Osw. The mask, 
Which for a season I have stooped to wear, 
Must be cast off. — Know then that 1 was 

urged, 
(For other impulse let it jjass) was driven, 
To seek for sympathy, because 1 saw 
In you a mirror of my youthful self ; 
I would have made us equal once again, 
But that was a vain hope. You have struck 

home. 
With a few drops of blood cut short the 

business ; 
Therein forever you must yield to me. 
But what is done will save you from the 

blank 
Of living without knowledge that you live : 



Now you are suffering — for the future day, 
'Tis his who will command it. — Think of 

my story — 
Herbert is itxnoccnt. 

Mar. {^in a faint voice, and doubting! ) ). 
You do but echo 
My own wild words 1 

Osw. Young Man, the seed must he 

Hid in the earth, or there can be no harvest : 
'Tis Nature's law. What I have done in 

darkness 
1 will avow before the face of day. 
Herbert is innocent. 

Mar. What fiend could prcaiipt 

This action? Innocent! — oh, breaking 

heart !— 
Alive or dead, I'll find him. \Exit. 

Osw. Alive — perdition ! [Exit. 

Scene, ^/ztf inside of a poor Cottage. 

Eleanor an i Idonea seated. 

Idon. The storm beats hard — Mercy for 
poor or rich, 
Whose heads are shelterless in such a night I 
A Voice without. Holla ! to bed, good 

Folks, within ! 
Elea, O save us ! 

Idon. What can this mean ? 
Elea. Alas, for my poor husband !— 

We'll have a countmg of our flocks to-mor 

row ; 
The wolf keeps festival these stormy niqhts ■. 
Be calm, sweet Lady, they.are wassailers 

[ T/tc voices die an ay in the distance. 
Returning from their Feast- my heart beats 

so — 
A noise at midnight does so frighten me. 
Idoii. Hush ! \Listcnins: 

Elca. They are gone. On sutli a 

night, my husband, 
Dragged from his bed, was cast into a tlun 

geon, 
Where, hid from me, he counted many 

years, 
A criminal in no one's eyes but theirs — 
Not even in theirs — whose brutal violence 
So dealt v.ith him. 

Ido7i. I have a noble Friend 

First among youths of knightly breeding 

One 
Who lives but to protect the weak or in- 
jured. 
There again ! [Listening. 

Elea. 'Tis my husband's foot. Good 
Eldred 
Has a kind heart : but his imprisonment 



72 



POEMS WRITTEN IN fOUTH. 



Has made hini fearful, and he'll never be 
The man he was. 
Idon. I will retire : — good night ! 

\^Shc goes ivit/iin 

Enter Eld RED {hides a bundle). 

Eld. Not yet in bed, Eleanor ! — there are 
stains \\\ that frock which must be washed 
out. 

Elea. What has befallen you ? 

Eld. I am belated, and you nnist know 
the cause — {slea/chtg loiv) that is the blood 
of an unhappy Man. 

Elea. Oh ! we are undone forever 

Eld. Heaven forbid that I should lift my 
hand against any man. Eleanor, I have 
shed tears to-night, and it comforts me to 
thmk of it. 

Elea. Where, where is he ? 

Eld. I have done him no harm, but it 

will be forgiven me ; it would not have been 
so once. 

Elea. You have not buried anything? 
You are no richer than when you left me ? 

Eld. Be at peace ; I am innocent. 

Elea. Then God be thanked — 

\A short pause, she falls upon his ncek. 

Eld. To-night I met with an old Man ly- 
ing stretched upon the ground — a sad spec- 
tacle : I raised him up with a hope that we 
might shelter and restore him. 

Elea. (as if ready to run). Where is he.'' 
You were not able to bring him all the way 
With you ; let us return, 1 can help you. 

[Eld RED shakes his head. 

Eld He did not seem to wish for life '. as 
I was strugghng on, by the light of the moon 
I saw the stains of blood upon my clothes — 
he waved his hand, as if it were all useless ; 
and I let him sink again to the ground. 

Elea. Oh that I had b^cn by your side ! 

Eld. I tell you his liands and his body 
were cold — how could I disturb his last mo- 
ments .? he strove to turn from me as if he 
wished to settle into sleep. 

Elea. But, for the stains of blood — 

Eld He must have fallen, I fancy, for his 
head was cut ; but I think his malady was 
cold and hunger. 

Elea. Oh, Eldred, I shall never be able 
*o look up at this roof in storm or fair but 
I shall tremble. 

Eld. Is it not enough that my ill stars 
have kept me abroad to-night till this hour.'' 
( come home, and this is my comfort ! 

P-/ca. Hut did he say nothing which 
Wight hiive set you at ease I 



Eld I thought he grasped my hand while 
he was muttering something about his Child 
— his Daughter — (starting as if he heard A 
noise). Wiiat is that.? 

Elea. Eldred, you are a fatlier. 

Eld. God knows what was in my heart, 
and will not curse my son for my sake. 

Elea. But you prayed by him .? you waited 
the hour of his release ? 

Eld. The night was wasting fast ; I have 
no friend ; I am spited by the world — his 
wound terrified me — if 1 had brought him 
along with me, and he had died in my arms! 

1 am sure I heard something breathing 

— and this chair ! 

Elea. Oh, Eldred, you will die alone. 
You will have nobody to close your eyes — 
no hand to grasp your dying hand — I shall 
be in my grave. A curse will attend us all. 

Eld. Have you forgot your own troubles 
when I was in the dungeon .? 

Elea. And you left him alive ? 

Eld. Alive ! — the damps of death were 
ui3on him — he could not have survived an 
hour. 

Elea. In the cold, cold night. 

Eld. (in a savage tone). Ay, and his 
head was bare ; I suppose you would have 
had me lend my bonnet to cover it. — You 
will never rest till 1 am brought to a felon's 
end. 

Elea. Is there nothing to be done? can- 
not we go to the Convent? 

Eld Ay, and say at once that I murdered 
him ! 

Elea. Eldred, I know that ours is the 
only house upon the Waste ; let us take 
heart ; this Man may be rich ; and could he 
be saved by our means, his gratitude may 
reward us 

Eld. 'Tis all in vain. 

Elea. But let us make the attempt. This 
old Man may have a wife, and he may have 
children — let us return to the spot ; we may 
restore him, and his eyes may yet open upon 
those that love him. 

Eld. He will never open them more ," 
even when he spoke to me, he kept them 
firmly sealed as if he had been blind. 

Idou (rushing out) It is, it is, my 
Father — 

Eld. We are betrayed {looking at 
Idonea). 

Elea. His Daughter ! — God have mercy ! 
(turniiig to Idonea). 

Idon. {sinking down). Oh! lift me up 
and carry me to the place. 



POEMS WRITTEN LV YOUTFT. 



n 



You are safe ; the whole world shall not 
harm you. 
Elea. This Lady is his Daughter. 
Eld. {moved). I'll lead you to the spot. 
Idon. (sprins^ing tip). Alive ! — you 
heard him breathe ? quick, quick— 

\^Exct{nt. 



Scene, the edge of the Moor. 



ACT V. 

Scene, a wood on the edge of the Waste. 

Enter Oswald and a Forester. 

For. He leaned upon the bridge that 
spans the glen, 
And down into tiie bottom cast his eye, 
That fastened there, as it would check the 
current. 
Osw. He listened too ; did you not say 

he listened ? 
For. As if there came such moaning from 
the flood 
As is heard often after stormy nights. 
Os-iv But did he utter nothing; ? 
For. See him there ! 

Marmaduke appearing. 
Mar. Buzz, buzz, ye black and winged 
freebooters*; 
That is no substance whicli ve settle on ! 
For. His senses play him false ; and see, 
his arms 
Outspread, as if to save himself from fall- 
ing !— 
Some terrible phantom I believe is now 
Passing before him, such as God will not 
Permit to visit any but a man 
Who has been guilty of some horrid crime. 
[Marmaduke disappra rs. 
Osw. The game is up ! — 
For. ]f it be needful, Sir, 

J will assist you to lay hands upon him. 
Osu'. No, no, my Friend, you may pursue 
your business — 
Tis a i^oor wretch of an unsettled mind, 
Wlio has a trick of straying from his 

keepers ; 
We must be gentle. Teave him to my 
care. [Exit Forester. 

If his own eyes play false with him, these 

freaks 
Of fancy shall be quickly tamed by mine ; 
The goa! is reached. My Master shall be- 
come 
A shadovr of myself— made by myself. 



Marmaduke and Eldred enter from 
opposite sides. 

Mar. {raising his eyes and perceiving 
Eldred). In any corner of this savage 
Waste, 
Have you, good Peasant, seen a blind old 
Man? 

Eld. 1 heard 

Mar. You heard him, where ? wh( n 

heard him ? 
Eld. As you know, 

Tiie first hours of last night were rough 

with storm : 
I had been out in search of a stray heifer ; 
Returning late, I heard a moaning sound; 
Then, tliinking that my fancy had deceived 

me, 
I hurried on, when straight a second moan, 
A human voice distinct, struck on my ear. 
So guided, distant a few steps, I found 
An aged Man, and such as you describe. 
Mar. You heard ! — he called you to him ? 
Of all men 
The best and kindest ! but where is he ? 

guide me, 
That I may see him. 

Eld. On a ridge of rocks 

A lonesome Chapel stands, deserted now : 
The bell is left, which no one dares re- 
move ; 
And, when the stormy wind blows o'er the 

peak. 
It rings, as if a human hand were there 
To pull he cord. 1 guess he must have 

he;..-dit; 
And it had led him towards the precipice, 
To climb up to the spot whence the sound 

came ; 
But he had failed through weakness, liuiu 

his hand 
His staff had dropped, and close upon the 

.brink 
Of a small pool of water he was laid. 
As if he had stooped to drink, and so re 

mained 
Without the strength to rise. 

Mar. Well, well, he lives, 

And all is safe : what said he ? 

Eld. But few words: 

He only spake to me of a dear Daughter, 
Who, 30 he feared, would never see hia 

more ; 
And of a Stranger to him. One by wliom 
He had been sore misused ; but he forgave 



74 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



The wrong and the wrong-doer You are 

troubled — 
Perliaps you are his son 

Mar. The All-seeing knows, 

I did not think he had a living Child — 
But wliither did you carry him ? 

Eld. He was torn, 

His head was bruised, and there was blood 

about iiim 

Mar. Tiuit was no work of mine. 
Eld. Nor was it mine. 

Mar. But had he strength to walk ? I 
could have borne him 
A thousand miles 

Eld. I am in poverty, 

And know how busy are the tongues of 

men ; 
My heart was willing, Sir, but I am one 
Whose good deeds will not stand by their 

own light ; 
And, tliough it smote me more than words 

can tell, 
I left him. 

Mar. I believe that there are phantoms, 
That in the shape of man do cross our path 
On evil instigation, to make sport 
Of our distress— and thou art one of them ! 
But things substantial have so pressed on 

me 

Eld. My wife and children came into my 

mind. 
Mar. Oh Monster! Monster! there are 
three of us. 
And we shall hov/i together. 

\After a /a use and in a fee lie voice. 

I am deserted 

At my worst need, my crimes have in a net 

^Pointing to Elurkd) Entangled this 

poor man. — 

Where was it ? where ? 

\Draggi71g him along. 

Eld. 'Tis needless ; spare your violence. 

His Daughter 

Mar. A> in the word a thousand scor- 
pions lodge : 
This old man had a Daughter. 

EU. To the spot 

1 hurried back with her. — O save me, Sir, 

From such a journey ! there was a black 

tree, 
A singii.; tree ; she thought it was her 

Father. — 
Oh Sir, I would not see that hour again 
For twenty lives. The daylight dawned, 

and now — 
Nay ; hear my tale, 'tis fit that you should 
bear it — 



As we approached, a solitary crow 

Rose from the spot ;— the Daugh'ter clapped 

her hands, 
And then I heard a shriek so terrible 

[Marmauuke shrinks back. 
The startled bird quivered upoa thtf 
wing. 
Mar. Dead, dead ! — 
Eld. {after a fause). A dismal matter^ 
Sir, for me. 
And seems the like for you ; if 'tis your 

wish, 
I'll lead you to his Daughter ; but 'twere 

best 
That she should be prepared ; I'll go before. 
Mar. There will be need of preparation. 
[j^LDRED goes off. 
Elea. {enters^. Master ! 

Your limbs sink under you, shall I support 
you ? 
Mar. {taking her arm). Woman, I've 
lent my body to the service 
Which now thou tak'st upon thee. Go*! 

forbid 
That thou shouldst ever meet a like occa- 
sion 
With such a purpose in thine heart as mine 
was. 
Eiea. Oh, wlr have I to do with things 
like these.'' {Exeunt. 

Scene changes to the door of Eldred's 

cottage — Idon E A seated — enter 

Eldred. 

Eld. Your Father, Lady, from a wilful 
hand 
Has met unkindness ; so indeed he told me, 
And you remember such was my report : 
From what has just befallen me 1 have 

cause 
To fear the very worst. 

Idon. My Fatner is dead ; 

Why dost thou come to me with words like 
these ? 
Eld. A wicked Man should answer foi 

his crimes. 
liloti. Thou seest me what I am. 
Eld. It was most heinous, 

And doth call out for vengeance. 

Idon. Do not add, 

I prithee, to the harm thou'st done al 
ready. 
Eld. Hereafter you will thank me for 
this service. 
Hard by, a Man I met, who, from pliiia 
proofs 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



75 



Of interfering^ Heaven, I have no doubt, 
Laid hands upon your Father. Fit it 

were 
You should prepare to meet him. 

Iiion. 1 have nothing 

Tii do with others; help me to my Father — 
[^S/ie turns and sees Marmaduke 
leaning on Eleanor — throus her- 
self upon his neck, and after some 
time, 
In joy I met thee, but a few hours ]xist ; 
And thus we meet again ; one human stay 
Is left me still in thee. Nay, shake not so. 
Mar. In such a wilderness — to see no 
thing, 
No, not the pitying moon ! 
Idon. And perish so. 

Mar. Without a dog to moan for him. 
Idon. Think not of it, 

T?ut enter there and see him how he sleeps, 
'I'ranquil as he had died in his own bed. 
Mar. Tranquil — why not .? 
Idon. Oh, peace! 

Mar He is at peace ; 

His body is at rest there was a plot, 
A hideous plot, against the soul of man : 
It took effect— and yet 1 baffled it. 
In some degree. 

Idon. Between us stood, I thought, 

A cup of consolation, filled from Heaven 
For botii our needs ; must I, and in thy 

presence, 
Alone jwrtake of it i* — Beloved Marma- 
duke ! 
Alar . Give me a reason why the wisest 
thing 
That the earth owns shall never choose to 

die. 
But some one must be near to count his 

groans. 
The wounded deer retires to solitude. 
And dies in solitude ; all things but man. 
All die in solitude. 

[iMuving totvards the cottage-door. 
Mysterious God, 
If she had never lived 1 had not done it ! — 
Idon. Alas ! the thought of such a cruel 
death 
Has overwhelmed him. — I must follow. 

Eld. Lady ! 

You will do well ; {she q^oes) unjust suspi- 
cion may 
Cleave to this Stranger : if, upon his en- 
tering. 
The dead Man heave a groan, or from his 

side 
Uplift his hand — that would be evidence. 



Elca. Shame ! Eldred, shame ! 
Mar. {both returning). The dead have 
but one face {to himself). 

And such a Man — so meek and unoffend- 
ing — 

Helpless and harmless as a babe : a Man, 

By obvious signal to the world's protec- 
tion, 

Solemnly dedicated — to decoy him ! — 
Idon. Oh, had you seen him hving ! — 
Mar. I (so filled 

With horror is this world) am unto thee 

The thing most precious that it now con- 
tains : 

Therefore through me alone must be re- 
vealed 

By whom thy Parent was destroyed, 
Idonea ! 

I have the proofs ! — 

Idon. O miserable Father I 

Thou didst command me to bless all man- 
kind ; 

Nor, to this moment, have I ever wished 

Evil to : ny living thing ; but hear me. 

Hear me, ye Heavens ! — {kneeling) — may 
vengeance haunt the fiend 

For this most cruel murder : let him live 

And move in te'ror of the elements ; 

The thunder send him on his knees to 
prayer 

In the open streets, and let him think he 
sees. 

If e'er he entereth the house of God, 

The roof, self-moved, unsettling o'er his 
head ; 

And let him, when he would lie down at 
night, 

Point to his wife the blood-drops on his 
pillow ! 
Mar. My voice was silent, but my heart 

hath joined thee. 
Idon. {/eani)tg 0)1 l,\\\i.^\xViVKu). Left 
to the irercy of that savage Man ! 

How could he call upon his Child! — O 
Friend ! [ Turns to Marmaduke. 

My faithful, true and only Comforter. 
Mar. Ay, come to me and weep. {He 
kisses her) {To Eldreu.) Yes, 
varlet, look, 

The devils at such sights do clap their 
hands. [ELiiRED retires alarmed. 

Idon. Thy vest is torn, thy cheek is 
deadly pale ; 

Hast thou pursued the monster ? 

Alar. 1 have found him.— 

Oh ! woulil that thou hadst perished in the 
flames 1 



76 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



Idon. Here art thou, then can I be des- 
olate ? — 
Mar. There was a time when this pro- 
tecting hand 
Availed against the mighty ; never more 
Shall blessings wait upon a deed of mine. 
Idon. Wild words for me to hear, for me, 
an orphan, 
Committed to thy guardianship by Heaven ; 
And, if thou hast forgiven me, let me hope 
In this deep sorrow, trust, that I am thine 
For closer care ;^iere is no malady. 

[ Taking his arm. 
Mar. There, is almalady — 
{Striking his heart and forehead.) And 

here, and here, 
A mortal malady. — I am accurst : 
All nature curses me, and in my heart 
Thy curse is fixed ; the truth must be laid 

bare. 
It must be told and borne. I am the man, 
(Abused, betrayed, but how it matters not) 
Presumptuous above all that ever breathed, 
Who, casting as 1 thought a guilty Person 
Upon Heaven's righteous judgment, did 

become 
An instriuiient of Fiends, Through me, 

through me 
Thy Father perished. 

Idnn. Perished— by what mischance ? 
Mar. Beloved ! — if 1 dared, so would 1 
call thee — 
Conflict must cease, and, in thy frozen 

heart, 
The extremes of suffering meet in absolute 
peace. \He gives her a letter. 

Idon. {reads). " Re not surprised if you 
hear that some signal judgment has befallen 
the man who calls himself your father ; he 
is now with nie, as his signature will show : 
abstain from conjecture till you see me. 
" IIfrbekt, 
" Marmaduke." 
The writing Oswald's ; the signature mv 

Father's : 
[Looks steadily at the paper >) And here is 

yours, — or do my eyes deceive me t 
You have then seen my Father ? 

Mar. He has leaned 

Upon this arm. 

Idon. You led him towards the Convent ? 
Mar. That Convent was Stone-Arthur 
Castle Thither 
We were his guides. I on that night re- 
solved 
'J'luit he should wait thy coming till the day 
Ot resurrection. 



Idon. Miserable Woman, 

Too quickly moved, too easily givmg way, 
1 put denial on thy suit, and hence, 
With the disastrous issue of last night, 
Thy perturbation, and these frantic words 
Be calm, 1 pray thee ! 

Mar. Oswald 

Idon. Name h.m rot 

Enter female Beggar. 
Beg. And he is dead !— that Moor— hovs 

shall I cross it .? 
By night, by day, never shall I be able 
To travel half a mile alone.- Good Ladvl 
Forgive me !— Saints forgive me. Had ! 

^thought 
It would have come to this ! — 

Idon. What brings you hither? speak! 
Beg. {pointing to M arm A duke). This 

innocent (ientleman. Sweet heavens ! 

I told him 
Such tales of your dead leather ! — God is 

my judge, 
I thought tliere was no harm : but that bad 

Man, 
He bribed me with his gold, and looked sq 

fierce. 
Mercy I I said I know not what — oh pity 

me — 
I said, sweet Lady, you were not his 

Daughter- 
Pity me, 1 am haunted ; — thrice this day 
My conscience made me wish to be struck 

blind ; 
.And then I would have prayed, and had no 

voice. 
Idon. {to Marmaduke). Was it my 

Father '--no, no, no, for lie 
Was meek and p.itient, feeble, old and 

blind, 
Helpless, and loved me dearer than his life. 
— P>ut hear me. For oie question, 1 have 

a heart 
That will .sustain me. Did you murder 

liim ? 
Mar. No, not by stroke of arm. But 

learn the i)r()cess: 
Proof after proof was jiressed upon me; 

guilt 
Made evident, as seemed, by blacker guilt. 
Whose impious folds enwrapped even thee ; 

and truth 
And innocence, embodied in his looks, 
Ilis\v(jrds and tones and gestures, did but 

serve 
With nie to aggravate his crimes, and heaped 
Ruin upon the cause for which they pleaded. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH, 



11 



riien pity crossed the patli of my resolve : 
Confounded, 1 looked up to Heaven, and 

cast, 
Idoiiea ! thy blind Father, on the Or-dcal 
Of the bleak Waste — left him — and so he 

died !— 

[Idonea sinks senseless: Beggar, 

Eleanor, 6^<;. , crowd round and 

bear her off. 
Wliy may we speak these things, and do no 

more ; 
Wliy should a thrust of the arm have such 

a power. 
And words that tell these things be heard 

in vain ? 
Sac is not dead. Why ! — if I loved this 

Woman, 
I would take care she n^-ver woke again ; 
But she WILL wake, anJ she will weep for 

me, 
And say, no blame was mine — and so, poor 

fool. 
Will waste her curses on another name. 

\^He walks about distractedly. 

Enter Oswald, 

Oswald {to himself). Strong to o'erturn, 
strong also to build up. 

\^To Marmaduke. 

The starts and sallies of our last encounter 

Were natural enough ; but that, I trust, 

Is all gone by. You have cast off the chains 

That fettered your nobility of mind — 

Delivered heart and head ! 

Let us to Palestine ; 

This is a paltry field for enterprise. 
Mar. Ay what shall we cncounternext 1 
This issue — 

'Twas nothing more than darkness, deepen- 
ing darkness 

And weakness crowned with the impotence 
of death ! 

Your pupil is, you see, an apt proficient 
{ironically). 

Start not ! — here is another face hard by ; 

Come, let us take a peep at both together, 

And, with a voice at which the dead will 
quake. 

Resound t!ie praise of your morality — 

Of tliis too much. 

[Drawing OSWALD towards tm Cot- 
tai;c — stops short at the door. 

Men are there, millions, Oswald, 

Who w th bare liands would have plucked 
out thy heaiT 

And flung it to the dogs ; but I am raised 



Above, or sunk below, all further sense 
Of provocation. Leave mc, with the weight 
Of that old Man's forgiveness on thy heart, 
Pressing as heavily as it doth on mine. 
Coward 1 have been ; know, there lies not 

now 
Within the compass of a mortal thought, 
A deed that 1 would shrink from ;— but to 

endure, 
That is my destiny. May it be thine : 
Thy office, thy ambition, be henceforth 
To feed remorse, to welcome every sting 
Of penitential anguish, yea with tears. 
When seas and continents shall lie between 

us — 
The wider space the better — we may find 
In such a course fit links of sympathy. 
An incommunicable rivalship 
Maintained, for peaceful ends beyond onr 
view. 

[Confused voices — several of the band 
enter — rush iipon Oswald and seize 
him. 
One of them. I would have dogged him 

to the jaws of hell — 
Osw. Ha ! is it so ! — That vagrant Hag ! 
— this comes 
Of having left a thing like her alive ! [Aside. 
Several voices. Despatch him ! 
Osw. If 1 pass beneath a rock 

And shout, and with the echo of my voice, 
Bring down a heap of rubbish and it crush 

me, 
I die without dishonor. Famished, starved- 
A Fool s.nd Coward blended to my wish ! 
[Smiles scornfully and exultingly at 
Marmapuke. 
Wal. 'Tis done ! {stabs hint). 
Another of the band. The ruthless traitor ! 
Alar. A rash deed ! — 

With that reproof I do resign a station 
Of which I have been proud. 

Wil. {approaching Marmaduke). O 

my poor Master! 
Mar. Discerning Monitor, my faithful 
W^ilfred, 
Why art thou here ? 

[Turnijtgto Wallace 

Wallace, upon these Borders. 

Many there be whose eyes will not w;iut 

cause 
To weep that I am gone. Brothers ir 

arms! 
Raise on that dreary Waste a monument 
That may record my story ; nor let words — 
Few must they be, and delicate in theii 
touch 



78 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



As light itself — be there withheld from Her 
Who, through most wicked arts, was made 

an orphan 
By One who would have died a thousand 

times, 
To shield her from a moment's harm. To 

you, 
Wallace and Wilfred, I comn.jnd the Lady, 
By lowly nature reared, as if to make her 
In all things worthier of that noble birth, 
Whose long suspended rights are now on 

the eve 
Of restoration : with your tenderest care 

Watch over her, I pray — sustain her 

Several of the band {eagerly). Captain ! 
Mar. No more of that; in silence here 

my doom : 
A hermitage has furnished fit relief 
To some offenders ; other penitents, 



Less patient in their wretchedness, have 

fallen. 
Like the old Roman, on their own sword's 

point. 
They had their choice : a wanderer must 1 

go, 
The Spectre of that innocent Man, my 

guide. 
No human ear shall ever hear me speak ; 
No human dwelling ever give me food, 
Or sleep, or rest : but, over waste and wild. 
In search of nothing that this earth can 

give, 
But expiation, will I wander on — 
A Man by pain and thought compelled to 

live. 
Yet loathing life— till anger is appeased 
In Heaven, and Mercy gives me leave M 

die. 
1795-6. 



I 



POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF 
CHILDHOOD. 



My heart leaps up when I behold 

A rainbow in the sky ; j 
So was it wlien my life began ; 
So is it nov/ 1 am a man ; 
So be it when 1 shall grow old, 

Or let me die ! 
The Child is hither of the Man ; 
And 1 could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 
1S04. 

11 

TO A BUTTERFLY 

Stay near me — do not take thy flight ! 

A little longer stay in sight ! 

Much converse do 1 find in thee, 

Historian of my infancy ! 

Float near me : do not yet depart I 

Dead times revive in thee . 

Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art ! 

A solemn image to my heart, 

My father's family ! 

Oh ! pleasant, pleasant were the days, 
The time, when, in our childish plays, 
My sister Emmeline and I 
Together chased the butterfly ! 
A very hunter did I rush 
Upon the prey ; — with leaps and springs 
I followed on from brake to bush : 
But she, God love licr ! feared to brush 
Tlie dust from off its wings. 
iSoi. 



III. 

THE SPARROW'S NEST. 

Behold,, within the leafy shade, 
Those britjht blue eggs together laid! 
On me the chance-discovered sight 
Gleamed like a vision of delight. 
I started — seeming to espy 
Xhe home and sheltered bed, 



The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard^ 
My Father's house, in wet or dry 
My sister Emmeline and 1 
Together visited. 

She looked at it and seemed to fear it*, 
Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it;' 
Such heart was in her, being then 
A little Prattler among men. 
The Blessing of my later years 
Was with me when a boy; 
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears : 
And humble cares, and delicate fears; 
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears ; 
And love, and thought, and joy. ^ 
iSoi. 



IV. 

FORESIGHT. 

That is work of waste and ruin — 
Do as Charles and 1 are doing ! 
Strawberry-blossoms, one and all. 
We must spare them— here are many: 
Look at It— tlie flower is small, 
Small and low, though fair as any 
Do not touch it ! summers two 
1 am older, Anne, than you. 

Pull the primrose, sister Anne ! 

Pull as many as you can. 

— Here are daisies, take your fill ; 

f\insies, and the cuckoo-flower: 

Of the lofty daffodil 

Make your bed, or make your bower; 

Fill your lap, and fill your bosom ; 

Only spare the strawberry-blossom I 

Primroses, the Spring may love them,- 
Suinmer knows but little of them : 
Violets, a barren kind, 
Witliered on the ground must lie; 
Daisies leave no fruit behind 
When the pretty flowerets die ; 
Pluck them, and another year 
As many vrill be blowing here. 

(79> 



8o POEMS REFERRING TO TTJE PER TOP OF CHILPHOOD. 



God has given a kindlier power 
To the favored strawberry-flower. 
Hither soon as spring is fled 
You and Charles and 1 will walk ; 
Lurking berries, ripe and red, 
Then will hang on every stalk, 
Each within its leafy bower: 
And lor tiuit promise spare the flower! 
1802. 



CHARACTERISTICS OF A CHILD 
THREE YEARS OLD. 

Loving she is, and tractable, though wild ; 

And Innocence hath privilege in her 

To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes ; 

And feats of cunning ; and the pretty round 

Of trespasses, affected to provoke 

Mock-chastisement and partnership in play. 

And, as a faggot sparkles on the hearth, 

Not less if unattended and alone 

Than when both young and old sit gathered 

round 
And take deliglit in its activity; 
Even so this happy Creature of herself 
Is all-sufficient ; solitude to her 
Is blithe society, who fills the air 
With gladness and involuntary songs. 
Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn's 
Forth-startled from the fern where she lay 

couched : . 
Unthought-of, unexpected, as the stir 
Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow- 
flowers. 
Or from before it chasing wantonly 
The many-colored images imprest 
Upon the bosom of a placid lake. 



ADDRESS TO A CHILD, 

DURING A BOISTEROUS WINTER EVENING. 
BY MY SISTER. 

What way does the Wind come? What 

way does he go ? 
He rides over the water, and over the snow. 
Through wood, and through vale ; and, o'er 

rocky height 
Which the goat cannot climb, takes his 

sounding flight : 
He tosses about in every bare tree, 
As, if you look up, you plainly may see ; 



But how he will come, and whither he goeS| 
There's never a scholar in England knows. 

He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook, 
And ring a siiarp 'larum ; — but, if you should 

look, 
There's nothing to sec but a cushion of snoW 
Round as a pillow, and wliiter than milk, 
And softer than if it were covered witii silk. 
Sometimes he'll hide m the cave of a rock, 
Then whistle as sluill as the buzzard cock; 
— Yet seek aim,- and what shall you find in 

place } 
Nothing but silence and empty space ; 
Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves, 

[ That l-.e's left, for a bed, to beggars o\ 

j thieves I 

As soon as 'tis daylight to-morrow, with me 
You shall go to the orchard, and then you 

will see 
That he has been there, and made a great 

rout, 
And cracked the branches, and strewn them 

about ; 
Heaven grant that he spare but that one up- 
right twig 
That looked up at the sky so proud and big 
All last summer, as well you know. 
Studded with apples, a beautiful show! 

Hark ! over the roof he makes a pause, 
And growls as if he would fix his claws 
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle 
Drive them down, like men in a battle 
— But let him range round ; he does U3 no 

harm, 
We buildup the fire, we're snug and warm; 
Untouched by his breath, see the candle 

shines bright, 
And burns with a clear and steady light 
Books have we to read, — but that half-stifled 

knell, 
Alas ! 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell. 
— Come, now we'll to bed ! and when we are 

there 
He may work his own will, and what shall 

we care ? 
He may knock at the door, — we'll not let 

him in ; 
May drive at the windows, — we'll laugh at 

his din ; 
Let him seek his own home wherever it be ; 
Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and 

me. 
1806. 



POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD DF CHILDHOOD. 8 1 



VII. 

Tlin T.IOTllER'S RETURN. 

BY THE SAME. 

A MONTH, sweet little-c-nes, is past 
Since your dear Mother went away, — 
And she to-morrow will return ; 
To-morrow is the iiappy day. 

blessed tidings ! thought of joy ! 
Tlie eldest heard with steady glee ; 
Silent he stood : then laughed amain, — 
And siiouted, " Mother, come to me ! " 

Louder and louder did he shout, 
With witless hope to bring her near; 
" Nay, patience ! patience, little boy 
Your tender mother cannot hear." 

1 told of hills, and far-off towns, 

And long, long vales to travel through; — 
He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed, 
But lie submits : what can he do.? 

No strife disturbs his sister's breast : 
She wars not with the mystery 
Of time and distance, night and day ; 
The bonds of our humanity. 

Her joy is like an instinct joy 
Of kitten, bird or summer fly; 
She dances, runs without an aim, 
She chatters in her ecstasy. 

Her brother now takes up the note, 
And echoes back his sister's glee ; 
They hug the infant in my arms, 
As if to force his sympathy. 

Then, settling into fond discourse, 
We rested in the garden bower ; 
While sweetly shone the evening sun 
In his departing hour. 

We told o'er all that we had done, — 
Our rambles by the swift brook's side 
Far as the willow-skirted pool, 
Where two fair swans together glide. 

We talked of change, of winter gone. 
Of green leaves on the hawtliorn spray. 
Of birds that build their nests and sing. 
And all " since Mother went away ! " 

To her these tales they will repeat. 
To her our new-born tribes will show, 
Th.e goslings green, the ass's colt. 
The lambs that in the meadow go. 

— But, see, the evening star comes forth! 
T© bed the children must depart ; 



A moment's heaviness they feel, 
A sadness at the heart : 

'Tis gone — and in a merry fit 

The; r..ii >:p stairs in ga.mesome race; 

I, too, infected by their mood, 

I -ould hav oined the wanton chase. 

Five minutes past — and, O the change I 
Asleep upon their beds tliey lie ; 
Their busy limbs in perfect rest, 
And closed the sparkling eye. 
1807. 



VIII. 

ALICE FELL; 

OR, POVERTY. 

The post-boy drove with fierce career, 
For threatening clouds the moon ha^ 

drowned ; 
When, as we hurried on, my ear 
Was smitten with a startling sound. 

As if tlie wind blew many ways, 
I heard the sound, — and more and more ; 
It seemed to follow with tlie chaise. 
And still I heard it as before. 

At length I to the boy called out ; 
He stopped his horses at the word. 
But, neither cry, nor voice, nor shout. 
Nor aught else like it, could be heard. 

The boy then smacked his whip, and fast 
The horses scampered through tlie rain; 
But, hearing soon upon the iDlast 
The cry, 1 bade him halt again. 

Forthwith alighting on the ground, 
"Whence comes," said I, "this piteous 

moan ? " 
And there a little Girl I found. 
Sitting behind the chaise, alone. 

" My cloak ! '' no other word she spake, 
But loud and bitterly she wept, 
As if her innocent heart would break ; 
And down from off her seat she leapt. 

" What ails you, child ? "—she sobbed 

" Look here ! '' 
I saw it in the wheel entangled, 
A weather-beaten rag as e'er 
From any garden scare-crow dangled. 



82 POEMS /DEFERRING TO THE lERIOD Of CHILDHOOD. 



There, twisted between nave and spoke, 
It luing, iior could at once be freed ; 
But our joint pains unloosed the cloak, 
A miserable rag indeed ! 

■' And whither are you going, child, 
To-niglit, along these lonesome ways ? " 
" To burliam,'' answered she, half wild- 
" Then come with me into the chaise. " 

Insensible to all relief 
Sat the poor girl, and forth did send 
Sob after sob, as if her grief 
Could never, never have an end. 

" My child, in Durham do you dwell ? " 
She checked herself in her distress. 
And said, " My name is Alice Fell ; 
I'm fatherless and motherless. 

And I to Durham, Sir, belong." 
Again, as if the tliought would choke 
Her very heart, her grief grew strong ; 
And all was for her tattered cloak ! 

The chaise drove on ; our journey's end 
Was nigh ; and, sitting by my side, 
As if she had lost her only friend 
She wept, nor would be pacified. 

Up to the tavern-door we post ; 
Of Alice and her grief I told ; 
And 1 gave money to the host, 
To buy a new cloak for the old. 

" And let it be of duffil gray, 
As warm a clotik as man can sell ! " 
Proud creature was she tlie next day, 
Tlie little orphan, Alice Fell! 
1801. 



LUCY GRAY 



OR, SOLITUDE. 



Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray : 
And wlien I crossed the wild, 
I :hanced to see at break of day 
The solitary child. 

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; 
She dwelt on a wide moor, 
( ■ — The sweetest thing that ever grev 
Beside a human door ! - 

You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
The hare upon the green ; 
But the sv/eet face of Lucy Gray 
, Will never more be seen. 



'•J 



" To-night will be a stormy night— 
You to the town must go ; 
And take a lantern, Clnld, to light 
Your mother through the snow." 

" That, Father ! will I gladly do : 
'Tis scarcely afternoon — 
The minster-clock has just struck two, 
And yonder is the moon ! '' 

At this the Father raised his hook, 
And snapped a faggot-band ; 
He plied liis work ; — and Lucy took 
The lantern in her hand. 

Not blither is the mountain roe ; 
With many a wanton stroke 
Her feet disperse the powdery sno\», 
That rises up like smoke. 

The storm came on before its time : 
S!ie wandered up and down ; 
And many a lull did Lucy climb 
But never reached tlie town. 

The wretched parents all that night 
Went shouting far and wide ; 
But there was neither sound nor sight 
To serve them for a guide. 

At day-break on a hill they stood 
That ovcrlo(;ked the moor ; 
And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 
A furlong from their door. 

They wept — and, turning homeward, cried 
" In heaven we all shall meet ; '' 

-When in the snow the mother spied 
The print of Lucy's feet. 

Then downwards from the steep hill's edg« 
They tracked the footmarks small ; 
And through the broken hawthorn liedge, 
And by the long stone-wall 

And then an open field they crossed : 
'J'he marks were still the same ; 
They tracked them oh, nor ever lost ; 
And to the bridge they came. 

They followed from the snowy bank 
Those footmarks, one by one, 
Into the middle of the plank ; 
And further there were none! 

-Yet some maintain that to this day 
She is a living child ; 
Tliat you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
Upon the lonesome wild. 



POEMS REFERRIIVG TO JUL PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 83 



O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
And never looks behind ; 
And sings 3 solitary song 
That whistles in the wind. 
1799. 



X. 

WE ARE SEVEN. 

A simple Child, 

That ligiUly draws its breath, 
And feels its life in every limb, 
What should it know of death? 

I met a little cottage Girl : 
She was eight years old, she said ; 
Her hair was thick with many a curl 
That clustered round her head. 

She had a rustic, woodland air, 
And she was wildly clad : 
Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; 
^Her beauty made me glad. 

" Sisters and brothers, little Maid, 
How many may you be ? " 
" How many ? Seven in all," she said, 
And wonc'ering looked at me. 

" And where are they ? 1 pray you tell." 
She answered, " Seven are we : 
And two of us at Conway dwell, 
And twc ire gone to sea. 

Two of Ji. in the church-yard lie, 
My sister and my brother ; 
And, in the church-yard cottage, I 
Dwell near them with my mother." 

•' Von say that two at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea. 
Vet ye are seven ! — I pray you tell. 
Sweet Maid, how this may be." 

Then did the little Maid reply, 
" Seven boys and girls are we : 
'J'vvo of us in the church-yard lie, 
heiieath the church-yard tre»i.*' 

" Vou run about, my little Maid, 
Your limbs they are alive; 
If two are in the church-yard laid. 
Then ye are only five." 

" Their graves are green, they may be seen,' 

The little Maid replied, 

" Twelve steps or more from my mother's 

door, 
And they are side by side. 



My stockings there I often knit, 
My kercliief tiiere 1 hem ; 
And thL'ic upon the ground 1 sit, 
And sing a song to them. 

And often after sun-set. Sir, 
When it is light and fair, 
I take my little porringer, 
And eat my supper there. 

The first that died was sister Jane : 
In bed she moaning lay. 
Till God released her of her pain ; 
And then she went away. 

So in tlie church-yard she was !a;d ; 
And,\vlicn the grass was dry, 
Together round her .,rave we playcil. 
My brother John and L 

And when Ihe ground was white cith snoVf 
And I could run and slide. 
My brother John was forced to go, 
And he lies by htr side." 

" How many are you, then ? " said I, 
" If they two are in heaven ? " 
Quick was the little Maid's reply, 
" o Master ! we are seven." 

I " But they are dead ; those two are dead • 
Their spi'its are in heaven! '' 
'Twas throwing words away; for still 
The little Maid would have her will, 
And said, " Nay, we are seven! '' 
1798. 



THE IDLE SHEPHERD BOYS 5 

OR, DUNGEON-GHYLL FORCE.* 
A P.\STORAL. 

The valley rings with mirth and joy; 
Among the hills the echoes play 
A never, never ending song, 
To welcome in the May. 
The magpie chatters with delight ; 
The mountain raven's youngling brood 
Have left the mother and the nest ; 
And they go rambling east and west 
In search of their own food ; 



* Ghyll, in the dialect of Cumberland and 
Westmoreland, is a short and, for the most 
part, a steep narrow valley, with a stream ruiv 
iiinK through it. Force is the word universally 
employed in these dialects for waterfalL 



84 POEAfS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 



Or througli the glittering vapors dart 
In very wantonness of heart. 

Beneath a rock upon the grass, 
Two boys are sitting in tlie sun ; 
Their work, if any work they have, 
Is out of mind — or done. 
On pipes of sycamore they play 
'J'he fragments of a Christmas hymn 
Or with that plant which in our dale 
We call stag-horn, or fox's tail, 
Tiieir rusty hats they trim : 
And thus, as happy as the day, 
Those shepherds wear the time away. 

Along tlie river's stony marge 

The sand-lark chants a joyous song ; 

The thrush is busy in the wood, 

And carols loud and strong. 

A thousand iambs are on the rocks. 

All newly born ! both earth and sky 

Keep jubilee, and more than all. 

Those boys with their green coronal ; 

They never hear the cry, 

Tiiat plaintive cry ! which up the hill 

Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll. 

Said Walter, leaping from the giound, 
*' Down to the stump of yon old yew 
We'll for our whistles run a race." 

Away the shepherds flew ; 

They leapt — they ran — and when they came 
Rigiit opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll, 
Seeing that he should loose the prize, 
"Stop! " to his comrade Walter cries- 
James stopped witli no good will : 
Said Walter then, exulting ; " Here 
You'll find a task for half a year. 

Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross — 

Come on, and tread where I shall tread." 

The other took him at his word, 

And followed as he led. 

It was a spot which you may see 

If ever you to Langdale go ; 

Into a chasm a mighty block 

Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock : 

The gulf is deep below ; 

And, in a basin black and small, 

Receives a lofty waterfall. 

With staff in hand across the cleft 
The challenger pursued his march ; 
And now, all hands and feet, hath gained 
The middle of the arch. 
When list ! he hears a piteous moan — 
Again ! — his heart within him dies — 
His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost, 



He totters, pallid as a ghost, 
And, looking down, espies 
A lamb, that in the pool is pent 
Within that black and frightful rent. 

The lamb had slipped into the stream. 

And safe wthout a bruise or wound 

The cataract had borne him down 

Into the gulf profound. 

His dam had seen him when he fell. 

She saw him down the torrent borne ; 

And, while with all a mother's love 

Slie from the lofty rocks above 

Sent forth a cry forlorn, 

Tlie lamb, still swimming round and roun(J 

Made answer to that plaintive sound 

When he had learnt what thing it was, 

That sent this rueful cry ; 1 ween 

Tlie Buy recovered heart, and tuld 

The sight which he had seen. 

Both gladly now deferred their task ; 

Nor was there wanting other aid — 

A Poet, one who loves the brooks 

Far better than the sages' books, 

By chance had thitlier strayed ; 

And there the helpless lamb he found 

By those huge rocks encompassed round. 

He drew it from the troubled pool. 
And brought it forth into the light : 
The Shepherds met him with his charge, 
An unexpected oight ! 
Into their arms the lamb they took, 
Whose life and limbs the Hood had spared 
Then up the steep ascent they hied. 
And placed him at his mother's side; 
And gently did the Bard 
Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid. 
And bade them better mind their trade. 
1800. 



XII. 

ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS. 
" Retina vim islam, falsa enim dicam, ^icoges.* 

EUSEBIUS 

I have a boy of five years old ; 
His face is fair and fresh to see ; 
His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, 
And dearly lie loves me. 

One morn we strolled on our dry walk 
Our quiet home all full in view, 
And held such intermitted talk 
As we are wont to do. 



pop: MS RF.FERnrxc TO rrrE rERmn of childhood. 85 



My thoughts on former pleasures ran ; 
1 thought of Kilve's delightful shore, 
Oiii pleasant home when spring began, 
A long, long year before. 

A day it was when I con Id bear 
Some fond regrets to entertain ; 
With so much happiness to spare, 
I could not feel a pain. 

The green earth echoed to the feet 
Ot lambs that bounded tiirough tlic glade, 
From shade to sunshine, and as fleet 
b'lum sunshine back to shade. 

Birds warbled round me — and each trace 
Of inward sadness had its charm ; 
Kilve, tiiought 1, was a favored place, 
And so is Liswyn farm. 

My boy beside me tripped, so slhn 
And graceful in his rustic dress ! 
And, as we talked, 1 questioned him, 
In vei-y idleness. 

" Now tell me, had you rather be," 

I said, and took him by the arm, 

" On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea, 

Or here at Liswyn farm ? " 

In careless mood he looked at me, 
While still I held him by the arm, 
And said. " At Kilve I'd rather be 
Than here at Liswyn farm." 

" Now, little Edward, say why so . 
My little Edward, tell me why.'' — 
" I cannot tell, 1 do not know,'' — 
" Why, this is strange,'' said I ; 

" For, here are woods, hills smooth and 

warm : 
There surely must some reason b? 
Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm 
For Kilve by the green sea." 

At this, my boy hung down his head. 
He blushed with shame, nor made reply , 
And three times to the child I said, 
« Why, Edward, tell me why .? " 

His head lie raised — there was in sight, 
;t caught his eye, he saw it plain — 
Upon the house-top, glittering bright, 
A broad and gilded vaue. 

Th&n did the boy his tongue unlock, 
And eased his mind witli cliis reply : 
" At Kilve there was no weathtd^-cock ; 
And that's tke reason why." 



O dearest, dearest boy ! my heart 
P'or belter lore would seldom yearu, 
Could I but teach the hundredth part 
Of wiiat from thee 1 learn. 



XIII. 

RUR.'\L ARCHITECTURE. 

There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, 

and Reginald Shore, 
Three rosy-cheeked school-boys, the highest 

not more 
Than the height of a counsellor's bag ; 
To the top ot Great How * did it please 

them to climb : 
And there they built up, without mortar or 

lime, 
A Man on the peak of the crag. 

They built him of stones gathered up as 

they lay : 
They built him and christened him all in 

one day, 
An urchin both vigorous and hale ; 
And so without scruple they called him 

Ralph Jones. 
Now Ralph is renowned for the length of 

his bones ; 
The Magog of Legbcrthwaite dale. 

Just half a week after, the wind sallied 

forth. 
And, in anger or merriment, out of the 

north, 
Coming on with a terrible pother. 
From the peak of the crag blew the giant 

away. 
And what did these school-boys ? — The very 

next day 
They went and they built up another. 

— Some little I've seen of blind boisterous 
works 

By Christian disturbers more savage than 
Turks, 

Spirits busy to do and undo: 

At remembrance whereof my blood some- 
times will fiag ; 

Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the 
crag ; 

And I'll build up a giant with you. 
i8oi. 



* Great How is a single and corspicuous 
lull, winch rises towards the foot of Thirlmore, 
on the western side of the beautiful dale of 
Legberthwaite- 



86 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD, 



XIV. 

THE PET-LAMB. 

A PASTORAL. 

The dew was falling fast, the stars began to 
blink ; 

I heard a voice ; it said, " Drink, pretty 
creature, drink ! " 

And, locking o'er the hedge, before me I es- 
pied 

A snow-white mountain-lamb with a Maiden 
at its side. 

Nor sheep nor kine were near ; the lamb 

was all alone, 
And by a slender cord was tethered to a 

stone ; 
With one knee on the grass did the little 

Maiden kneel, 
While to that mountain-lamb she gave its 

evening ineal. 

The lamb, while from her hand he thus his 

supper took. 
Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his 

tail with pleasure sliook. 
" Drink, pretty creature, drink," she said in 

such a tone 
That I almost received her heart into my 

own. 



*Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of 

beauty rare ! 
I watched them with delight, they were a 

Now ^th her empty can the maiden turned , '^^ou know'st that twice a day I have 



What is it thou wouldst seek? what wanfe 

ing to thy heart? 
Thy limbs are they not strong ? and beau' 

tiful thou art : 
This grass is tender grass ; these flowers 

they have no peers ; 
And that green corn all day is rustUng is 

thy ears ! 

If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy 

woollen chain. 
This beech is standing by, its covert thou 

canst gain ; 
For rain and mountain-storms I the like 

thou need'st not fear, 
The rain and storm are things that scarcely 

can come here. 

Rest, little young One, rest ; thou hast for- 
got the day 

When my father found thee first in places 
far away ; 

Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert 
owned by none. 

And thy mother from thy side forevermore 
was gone 

He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought 

thee home : 
A blessed day for thee ! then whither 

wouldst thou roam ? 
A faithful nurse thou hast ; the dam that 

did thee yean 
Upon the mountain tops no kinder could 

have been. 



away 



brousiht thee in this can 



But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did .Fresh water from the brook, as clear as 



she stay. 

Right towards the lamb she looked ; and 

from a shady place 
I unobserved could see the workings of her 

face : 
If Nature to her tongue could measured 

numbers bring 



ever ran ; 
And twice in the day, when the ground is 

wet with dew, 
I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it 

is and new. 

Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as 
they are now. 



Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little Maid Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony 

might sin"- : i" tlie plough ; 

* My playmate thou shalt be ; and when the 
•' What ails thee, young One ? what ? Why vvind is cold 

pull so at thy cord ? Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall 



Is it not well with thee ? well both for bed 

and board ? 
Thy plot of grass is soft, as green as grass 

can be ; 
Rest, little young One rest; what is't that 

aileth thee ? 



be thy fold. 

It will not, will not rest I — Poor creaturci 

can it be 
That 'tis thy mother's heart which is work 

ing so in thee ? 



POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 87 



Things that I know not of belike to thee 

are dear, 
And dreams of things which thou canst 

neither see nor hear. 

Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green 

and fair ! 
I've heard of fearful winds and darkness 

that come there ; 
The little brooks that seem all pastime and 

all play. 
When they are angry, roar like lions for 

their prey 

Here thou need'st not dread the raven in 

the sky ; 
Night and day the i art safe, — our cottage 

is hard by. 
Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at 

thy chain \ 
Sleep — and at break of day I will come to 

thee again ! " 

—As homeward through the lane I went 
with lazy feet, 

This song to myself did I oftentimes re- 
peat ; 

And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line 
by line, 

That but half of it was iiers, and one half 
of it was mbie. 

Again, and once again, did 1 repeat the 
song ; • 

*' Nay,'' said I, "more than half to the dam- 
sel must belong, 

For she looked witli such a look, and she 
spake with such a tone, 

Tliat 1 almost received her heart into my 
own." 
iSoo 



XV, 

TO H. C. 

SIX YEARS OLD. 

O Tiiou ! whose fancies from afar are 

brought ; 
Who of tiiy words dost make a mock ap- 
parel, 
And fittest to unutterable thought 
The breeze-like motion and the self-born 

carol ; 
Thou fairy voyager ! that dost float 
In such clear water, that thy boat 



May rather seem 

To brood on air than on an earthly stream ; 
Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, 
Where earth and heaven do make one iin 
agcry ; 

blessed vision ! happy child ! 
Thou art so exquisitely wild, 

1 think of thee with many lears 

For what may be lliy .ot in future years. 
I thought of times when Pain might be thy 

guest. 
Lord of thy house antl hospitality ; 
And Grief, uneasy lover ! never rest 
but when she sate witiiin the touch of thee. 
O too industrious folly I 
O vain and causeless melancholy ! 
Nature will either end thee quite ; 
Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, 
Preserve tor thee, by individual right, 
A young iamb's heart among the full-grown 

flocks. 
What hast thou to do with sorrow. 
Or the injuries of to-morrow ? 
Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings 

forth, 
111 fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, 
fJr to be trailed along the soiling earth ; 
A gem that glitters while it lives, 
And no forewarning gives; 
But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife 
Slips in a moment out of life. 
1S02. 



XVI. 

INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OB- 
JECTS 

IN CALLINO FORTH AND STftENCTHEN- 

ING THE IMAGINATION' IN BOVHOOO 

AND EARLY YOUTH. 

FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. 

[This extract is reprinted from " ThI 
Friend."] 

Wisdom and Spirit of the universe ! 
Thou Soul, that art the Eternity o"" 

thought ! 
And giv'st to forms and images a breath 
And everlasting motion ! not in vain, 
I5y day or starlight, thus from my first 

dawn 
Of childhood didst thou intertwine forme 
The |)assions that build up our human suui, 
N(.t with the mean and vulgar works of 

Man ; 



^8 POEMS RtLFEkkiNG TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 



But with high objects, with enduring 

things, 
W' th life and nature : purifying thus 
The elements of feeling and of thought, 
And sanctifying by such discipline 
Both pain and fear,— until we recognize 
k grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 

Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to 

me 
With stinted kindness. In November 

days. 
When vapors rolling down the valleys 

made 
A lonely scene more lonesome; among 

woods 
At noon; and mid the calm of summer 

nights, 
When, by the margin of the trembling lake. 
Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went 
In solitude, such intercourse was mine ; 
Mine was it in the fields both day and 

night, 
And by the waters, all the summer long, 
And in the frosty season, when the sun 
Was set, and, visible for many a mile, 
The cottage-windows through the twilight 

blazed, 
1 heeded not the summons: happy time 
It was indeed for all of us ; for me 
It was a time of rapture 1 Clear and loud 
The village clock tolled six — I wheeled 

about, 
Proud and exulting like an untired liorse. 
That cares not for liis home. — All shod with 

steel 
We hissed along tha polished ice, in games 
Confederate, imitative of the chase 
And woodl.-ffid pleasures, — the resounding 

horn, 
The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted 

hare. 
So through the darkness and the cold we 

flew, 
And not a voice was idle ; with the din 
Smitten, the precipices rang aloud ; 
The leafless trees and every icy crag 
Tinkled like iron ; vvJnle far-distant hills 
Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
Of melancholy, not unnoticed while the 

stars, 
Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the 

west 
The orange sky of evening died away. 



Not seldom from the uproar 
Jnto a silent bay, or sportively 



retired 



Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuohs 

throng, 
To cut across the reflex of a star ; 
Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed 
Upon the glassy plain . and oftentimes. 
When we had given our bodies to the wind, 
And all the shadowy banks on either side 
Came sweeping througii the darkness, spin 

ning still 
'f he rapid line of motion, then at once 
Have I, reclining back upon my heels, 
Stopped short, yet still the solitary cliffs 
Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had 

rolled 
With visible motion her diurnal round ! 
Behind me did they stretch, in solemn train, 
Feebler and feebler, and i stood and 

watched 
Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. 
1799. 



XVII. 
THE LONGEST DAY. 

DDRESSED TO iMV DAUGHTER. 

Let us quit the leafy arbo.--. 
And the torrent murmuring by; 
For the sun is in his harbor, 
Weary of the open sky. 

Evening now unbinds the fetters 
Fashioned by tlie glowing light ; 
All tliat breathe are thankful debtors 
To the harbinger of night. 

Yet by some grave thoughts attended 
Eve renews her calm career : 
For the day tliat now is ended. 
Is the longest of the year. 

Dora 1 sport, as now thou sportest, 
On this platform, hght and free ; 
Take thy bliss, while longest, shortest. 
Are indifferent to thee ! 

Who would check the happy feeling 
That inspires the linnet's song ? 
Who would stop the swallow, wheeling 
On her pinions swift and strong ? 

Yet at this impressive season, 
Words which tenderness can speak 
From the truths of liomely reason 
Might exalt the loveliest cheek ; 



POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHI LI) //OOP 89 



And, while shades to shades succeeding 
Steal tlie landscape from the sight, 
i would urge this moral pleading, 
Last forerunner of " Good-night ! " 

Stmmer ebbs ; — each day that follows 
Is a reflux from on liigh, 
Tendmg to the darksome hollows 
Where the frosts of winter lie. 

Wf who governs the creation, 
In ins providence, assigned 
Suc'ii a gradual declination 
1 o the life of human kind. 

Vf t we mark it not ;— fruits redden, 
ImcsIi flowers "blow, as flowers have blown, 
And the heart is loth to deaden 
Hopes that she so long hath known. 

Be thou wiser, youtlifiil Maiden ! 
And when tiiy decline shall come, 
Let not flowers, or boughs fruit-laden 
Hide the knowledge of thy doom. 

Now, even now, ere wrapped in slumber, 
Fix thine eyes upon the sea 
Tiiat absorbs time, space and number ; 
Look thou to Eternity ! 

Follow thou the flowing river 
On whose breast are thither borne 
All deceived, and each deceiver, 
Tlirough the gates of night and morn ; 

Through the year's successive portals ; 
Through the lx)unds which many a star 
Marks, not mindless of frail mortals, 
When his light returns from far. 

Thus when thou with Time hast travelled 
Toward the mighty gulf of things, 
And the mazy stream unravelled 
With thy best imaginings ; 

Think, if thou on beauty leanest, 
Think how pitiful that stay, 
Did not virtue give the meanest 
Chainis superior to decay. 

Duty, like a strict preceptor. 
Sometimes frowns, or seems to frown 
Choose her thistle for thy scei:)tre 
While youth's roses are thy crown. 

Grasp it, — if thou shrink and tremble, 
Fairest damsel of the green. 
Thou wilt lack the only symbol 
That proclaims a genuine queen 1 



And ensures those palms of honor 
Which selected spirits wear, 
r)ending low before the Donor, 
Lord of heaven's unchanging yearl 
1817. 



xvin 
THE NORMAN BOY. 

High on a broad unfertile tract of fnrest- 

skirted Down, 
Nor kept by Nature for herself, nor made 

by man his own, 
From home and rompany remote and every 

playful joy. 
Served, tending a few sheep and goats, a 

ragged Norman Boy. 

Him never saw f, nor the spot ; but from 

an English Dame, 
Stranger to me, and yet my friend, a simple 

notice came, 
Witii suit that I would speak in verse (»f 

tliat sequestered child 
Whom, one bleak winter's day, she met 

upon the dreary Wild. 

His flock, among the woodland's edge with 
relics sprinkled o'er 

Of last niglit's snow, beneath a sky threaten- 
ing the fall of more. 

Where tufts of herbage tempted each, were 
busy at their feed. 

And the pooi Boy was busier still, with 
work of anxious heed. 

There was he, where of branches rent and 

withered and decayed. 
For covert from the keen north wind, his 

hands a hut had made 
A tiny tenement, forsooth and frail, as needs 

must be 
A thing of such materials framed, by a 

builder such as he. 

The hut stood finished by his pains, no, 

seemingly lacked aught 
That skill or means of his could add, but the 

architect had wrought 
Some limber twigs into a Cross, well-shaped 

with fingers nice. 
To be engrafted on the top of his small edi. 

fice. 

That Cross he now was fastening there, as 

the surest power and best 
For supplying all deficiencieSj all wants of 

the rude nest 



|0 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 



In which, from burning licat, or tempest 

driving far and wide, 
Tlie innocent Boy, else siielterlcss, Ins lonely 

head must hide. 

That Cross belike he also raised as a stand- 
ard for the true 

And faithful service of his heart in the w st 
that might ensue 

Of hardship and distressful fear, amid the 
houseless waste 

Where he, in his poor self so weak, by Prov- 
i'lence was placed. 

Here, L-idy ! might I cease ; but nay, 

let HS before we part 
With this dear holy shepherd-boy breathe a 

prayer of earnest heart, 
That unto him, where'er shall lie his life's 

appointed way. 
The Cross, hxed in his soul, may prove an 

all-sufficing stay. 



XIX- 

THE POET'S DREAM. 

SEQUEL TO THE NORMAN BOV. 

Just as those final words were penned, the 

sun broke out in power, 
And gladdened all things ; but, as chanced, 

witliin that very hour, 
Air blackened, thunder growled, fire flashed 

from clouds that hid the sky, 
And for the Subject of my Verse, I heaved 

a pensive sigh. 

Nor could my heart by second thoughts from 
heaviness be cleared. 

For bodied forth before my eyes the cross- 
crowned hut appeared ; 

And, while around it storm as fierce seemed 
troubling earth and air, 

I saw, within, the Norman Boy kneeling 
alone in prayer. 

Tiie Child, as if the thunder's voice spake 
with articulate call, 

Bowed meekly in submissive fear, before the 
Lord of All ; 

His lips Arere moving ; and his eyes, up- 
raised to sue for grace, 

With soft illumination cheered the dimness 
of tnat place. 

How beautiful is holiness ! — what wonder if 

the sight, 
Almost as vivid as a dream, produced a 

drfiam at night f 



It came with sleep and showed the Boy,n3 

cherub, not transformed. 
But the poor ragged Thing whose ways my 

human heart had warmed. 

Me had the dream equipped with wings, so 

I took him in my arms, 
And lifted from the grassy floor, stilling hi? 

faint alarms, 
And bore him high through yielding air my 

debt of love to i)ay, 
By giving him, for botli our sakcs, an hour 

of holiday. 

I whispered, " Yet a little while, dear Child ! 
thou art my own, 

To show tiiee some delightful thing, in coun- 
try or in town. 

What shall it be? a mirthful throng? or 
that holy place and calm 

St. Denis, filled with royal tombs, or the 
Church of Notre Dame .' 

" St. Ouen's golden Shrine ? Or choose 

what else would please thee most 
Of any wonder, Normandy, or all proud 

France, can boast ! " 
" My Mother," said the P>oy, "was born 

near to a blessed Tree, 
The Chapel Oak of Allonvillc ; good Angel, 

show it me 1 " 

On wings, from broad and steadfast poise 

let loose by this reply. 
For Allonville, o'er down and dale, away 

then did we fly ; 
O'er town and tower we flew, and fields in 

May's fresh verdure drest ; 
The wings they did not flag ; the Child, 

though grave, was not dcprest. 

But who shall show, to waking sense, the 

gleam of light that broke 
Forth from his eyes, when first the Boy 

looked down on tliat huge oak. 
For length of days ?o much revered, sc 

famous where it stands 
For twofold hallowinc:— Nature's care, anc 

work of human hands ? 

Strong as an eagle with my charge I glided 

round and : ound 
The wide-sprad boughs. f( r view of door, 

window, and stair that wound 
Gracefully up the gnarled trunk ; nor lef 

we unsurveyrd 
The pointed stec) le peering forth from tht 

centre of the shade. 



FOEMS RKFKh'K/AC. 7(' rHE FhRIOD OF CHILDHOVIK 91 



1 liglited — opened will' soft touch the 
chapel's iron door, 

Past softly, Icadini; in \\v^ Hoy, and, wlnie 
from roof to Hoor. 

From Hoor to roof all round his eyes the 
Child witli Wdiidi'r cast, 

VIeasure on pleasure crowded in, each live- 
lier than the last. 

Fc r. deftly framed within the trunk, tlir 

sanctuary "^imwed, 
f!v ii'^ht ot lamp and jwccious stones, that 

glimmered l;ere, there flowed, 
Shrine, Altar, lnia<);e, Offerings hung in sign 

ol gratitude ; 
I. 'Jit tliat inspired accordant thoughts ; and 

speech 1 thus renewed ; 

' iMhcr the Afflicted conic, as thou liast 

iieard thy Motiicr say, 
And, kneeling, supplication nial;e to our 

I.aiiv deia I'aix ; 
W'h.it mournful sighs have here been heard, 

and, wlien the voice was stopt 
By sudden pangs, what bitter tears have on 

tins pavement dropt ! 

*■ i'oor Shepherd of the naked Dov/n, a 

favf)red lot is thine. 
Far liappier lot, dear Boy, tlian brings full 

many to this shrine ; 
From body pains and pains of soul tho 

needest no release, 
Thy hours as tliey flow on are spent, if n(i 

in joy, in peace. 

" Then offer up thy heart to God in thank 

fulness and praise, 
Give to Him prayers, and many thoughts, 

in thy most busy days ; 
And in His sight the fragile Cross, on thy 

small hut, will be 
Holy as that which long hath crowned the 

Chapel of this Tree ; 

• Holy as that far seen which crowns the 

sumptuous Church of Rome 
Where thousands meet to woiship God 

under a mighty Dome ; 
He sees the bending multitude, he hears the 

choral rites. 
Yet not the less, in children's hymns and 

lonely prayer, delights. 

"God for his service needeth not proud 

woik of linman skill ; 
They please him best who labor most to do 

in peace his will ; 



So let us strive to live, and to our spirits will 

be tjiven 
Such wings as, when our Saviour calls, shall 

bear us up to heaven." 

'1 he I5oy no answer made by words, but, so 
earnest was his look. 

Sleep tk-il, and with i't tied the draim -re- 
corded in this book. 

Lest all that passed slioiild melt away in 
silence from my mind. 

As visions still moi'c bright have done, and 
Ictt no tnsce behind. 

^iut oh ! that Country-man of tliine, whose 

eye, loved Child, can see 
A pledge of endless bhss in acts of early 

piety, 
In ver.se, whicii to thy ear might come, 

would treat this simpl tlu^mc. 
Nor leave untold our happy ffiglit in that 

adventurous dream. 

Alas the dream, to thee, poor T.oy ' to thee 

from whom it flowed, 
Was nothing, scarcely can be aught, yet 

'twas bounteously bestowed. 
If I may dare to cherish hope t-hat gentle 

eyes will read 
Not loth, and listening Little-ones, hcait- 

touched, their fancies feed. 



XX. 

THE WESTMORELAND GIRL. 

TO MY GR.VNDCIMLDREN. 



Seek who will delight in fable, 
I shall tell you truth. A Lamb 
Leapt from this steep bank to follow 
'Cross the brook its thoughtless dam. 

Far and wide on hill and valley 
Rain had fallen, unceasing rain. 
And the bleating mother's Young one 
Struggled with the flood in vain : 

But, as chanced, a Cottage-maiden 
(Ten years scarcely had she told) 
Seeing, plunged into the torrent. 
Clasped the Lamb and kept her hold 

Whirled adown the rocky channel. 
Sinking, rising, on they go, 
Peace and rest, as seems, before the« 
Only in the lake below. 



92 POEM:: REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILE HOOD. 



Oh ! U was a friglitful current, 
\Vlior<e fierce wrath the (lirl iiad braved 
Clap your hands with joy. my Hearers, 
Shout in triumph, both are saved j 

Saved l^y courage that with danger 
Grew, by strength the gift of love, 
And belike a ouardian angel 
Came with succor from above. 



PART II. 

Now, tij a maturer Audience, 
Let uie speak of this brave Child 
Ixit among her native mountains 
With wild Nature to run wild. 

So, unwatched by love maternal, 
Mother's care no more her guide. 
Fared this little bright-eyed Orphan 
Even while at her father's side. 

Spare your blame, — remembrance makes 

him 
I.olh to rule by strict command ; 
Still upon his check are living 
Touches of her infant hand. 

Dear caresses given in piiy, 
Sympathy that soothed his grief, 
As the dying mother witnessed 
To lier thankful mind's relief. 

Time passed on ; the Child was happy, 
Like a spirit of air she moved, 
Wayward, yet by all who knew her 
For her tender heart beloved. 

.'^carce^y less than sacred passions. 
Bred in house, in grove, and field, 
Link hf^r with the inferior creatures, 
Urge her powers their rights to shield. 

Anglers, bent on reckless pastime, 
Learn hov/ she can feel alike 
Both for tiny harmless minnow 
And the fierce and bharp-tuothed pike. 



Merciful protectress, kindling 
Into anger or chsdain ; 
Many a captive hath she rescued, 
Others saved from lingering pain. 

Listen yet awhile ; — with patience 
Hear the homely truths I tell, 
She in ( irasmere's old church-steejjle 
Tolled this day the passing-bell. 

Yes, the wild Girl of the mountains 
To their echoes gave liic sound. 
Notice punctual as the minute, 
Warning solemn and profound. 

Sli'i, fulfilling her sire's office, 
Rang alone the far-heard knell. 
Tribute, by licr hand, in sorrow, 
Paid to One who loved her well. 

When his spirit was depaitcd 
On that service she went Icitii ; 
Nor will fail the like to rer.der 
When his corse is laid in earth. 

What then wants the Child to temper, 
In her breast, unruly fire, 
'J"o control the froward impulse 
And restrain the vague desire .-' 

P^asily a pious training 
And a steadfast outwaid power 
Would supplant the weeds and cherish, 
In their stead, each opening flower. 

Tluis the fearless Lamb-deliv'rer 
Woman-grown, meck-heartcd, sage, 
I\Tay become a blest example 
For her sex, of every age. 

Watchful as a wheeling eagle, 
Constant as a soaring lark. 
Should the country need a heroine, 
She might prove our Maid of Arc. 

Leave that tliought ; and here be uttered 
Prayer that Grace divine may raise 
Her humane courageous spirit 
Up to heaven, thro' peaceful way3« 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



THF BROTHERS. 

" These Tourists, lieaven preserve us ! 

needs must live 
A profitable life : some glance along, 
Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, 
And they were butterflies to wheel about 
Long as the summer lasted : some, as wise, 
Perclicd on the forehead of a jutting crag, 
Pencil in liand and book upon the knee. 
Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, 
Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, 
Or reap an acre of his neighbor's corn. 
But, for that moping Son of Idleness, 
Why can he tarry yonder ^ — In our church- 
yard 
Js neither epitaph nor monument, 
Tombstone nor name — only the turf we 

tread 
And a few natural graves.'' 

To Jane, his wife, 
Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. 
It was a July evening ; and he sate 
Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves 
Of his old cottage, — as it chanced, that day, 
Employed in winter's work. Upon the 

stone 
His wife sate near him, teasing matted 

wool, 
While, from the twin cards toothed with 

glittering wire, 
He fed the spindle of his youngest child, 
Who, in the open air, with due accord 
Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps, 
Her large round wheel was turning. To- 
wards the field 
In which the Parish Chapel stood alone. 
Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, 
While half an hour went by, the Priest had 

sent 
Many a long look of wonder : and at last, 
Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white 

ridge 
Of carded wool which the old man had 

piled 



He laid his implements with gentle care, 
Each in the other locked ; and, down the 

path 
That from his cottage to the church-yard 

led. 
He took his way, impatient to accost 
The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering 

there. 

'Twas one well known to him in former 

days, 
A Shepherd-lad ; who ere his sixteenth 

year 
Had left that calling, tempted to intrust 
His expectations to the fickle winds 
And perilous waters ; with the mariners 
A fellow-mariner ;— and so had fared 
Through twenty seasons ; but he had been 

reared 
Among the mountains, and he in his heart 
Was half a shepherd on tlie stormy seas. 
Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard 

heard 
The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds 
Of caves and trees : — and, when the regular 

wind 
Between the tropics filled the steady sail, 
And blew with the same breath through 

days and weeks, 
Lengthening invisibly its weary lin 
Along the cloudless Main, he, in those 

hours 
Of tiresome indolence, would often hang 
Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze ; 
And, while the broad blue wave and spark 

ling foam 
Flashed round him images and hues that 

wrought 
In union with the employment of his heart. 
He, thus by feverish passion overcome, 
Even with the organs of his bodily eye, 
Below him, in the bosom of the deep, 
Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep 

that grazed 
On verdant hills — with dwellings among 

trees, 
And shepherds clad in the same country 

gray 
Wiiich he himself had worn. 



94 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



And now, at last, 
From perils manifold, with some small 

wealth 
Acqiiired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, 
To his paternal home he is returned. 
With a determined purpose to resume 
The life he had lived there; both for the 

sake 
Of many darling pleasures, and the love 
Which to an only brother he has borne 
In all his hardships, since that happy time 
When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two 
Were brother-shepherds on their native 

hills. 
— They were the last of all their race : and 

now, 
Wlien Leonard had approached his home, 

his heart 
Failed in him ; and, not venturing to en- 
quire 
Tidings of one so long and dearly loved, 
He to the solitary church-yard turned ; 
That, as he knew in what [articular spot 
His family were laid, he thence might learn 
If still his Brother lived, or to the file 
Another grave was added. — He had found 
Another grave, — near which a full half-hour 
He had remained ; but, as he gazed, there 

grew 
Such a confusion in his memory, 
That he began to doubt ; and even to hope 
That he had seen this heap of turf before, — 
That it was not another grave ; but one 
He had forgotten. He had lost his path, 
As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked 
Through fields which once had been well 

known to him : 
And oh what joy this recollection now 
Sent to his heart ! he lifted uj) his eves, 
And, looking round, imagined that he saw 
Strange alteration wrouglit on every side 
Among the woods and fields, and that the 

rocks 
And everlasting hills themsel '^s were 

changed. 

By this the Priest, who down the field had 

come, 
Unseen by Leonard, at the church yard gate 
Stopped short, — and thence, at leisure, limb 

by limb 
Perused him with a gay complacency. 
Ay, thought the Vicar, smilim, to himself, 
'Tis one of tliose who needs must leave the 

path 
Of the world's business tn vo wild alone: 
His arms have a perpetual holiday ; 



The happy man will creep about the fields 
Following his fancies by the hour, to bring 
Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles 
Into his face, until the setting sun 
'A'rite fool upon his foiehead. — Planted thus 
l>eneath a shed that over-arched the gate 
Of this rude church-yard, till the stars ap- 
peared 
The good Man might have communed witii 

himself, 
But that the Stranger, who had left the 

grave, 
Approached; he recognized the Priest at 

once, 
And, after greetings interchanged, and given 
By Leonard to the Vicar as to one 
Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. 
Leonard. You live, Sir, in these dales, a 

quiet life : 
Your years make up one peaceful family ; 
And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome 

come 
And welcome gone, they are so like each 

other, 
They cannot be remembered ? Scarce a 

funeral 
Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen 

months ; 
And yet, some changes must take place 

among you : 
An 1 you, who dwell here, even among these 

n^cks, 
Can trace the finger of mortality, 
And sec, tha*" with cur threescore years and 

ten 

We are not all that perish. 1 remember, 

(For many years ago I passed this road) 
There was a foot-way all along the fields 
^>y the brook-side — 'tis gone — and that dark 

cleft I 
J me it does not seem to wear the face 
' ;ch then it had! 

Priest. Nay, Sir, for aught I know, 

That chasm } much the same — 

Leonard. But, surely, yonder— 

Priest, .'^y, there, indeed, your memory 

is a friend 
That does not play you false.— On that tall 

pike 
(It is the loneliest place of all these hills) 
There were two springs which bubbled side 

by side. 
As if they had been made that they might be 
Companions for each other : the huge crag 
Was rent with lightning — one hath disap- 
peared ; 
The other, left behind, is flowing still. 



POEMS FOUNDED ON TFfE AFFECTIONS. 



For accidents and chans;es such as these 
We want not store of them ; — a water-spout 
Will brin_2; down half a mountain ; what a 

feast 
For folks that wander up and down like vou, 
To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff 
One roaring cataract ! a sharp May-storm 
Will come with loads of January snow, 
i^nd in one night send twenty score of 

sheep 
To feed the ravens ; or a shepherd dies 
P.y some untoward death among the rocks : 
The ice breaks up and sweeps away a 

bridge ; 
A wood is felled : — and then for our own 

homes ! 
A child is born or christened, a field 

ploughed, 
A daughter sent to service, a web spun. 
The old house-clock is decked with a new 

face; 
And hence, st> far from wanting facts or 

dates 
To chronicle the time, we all have here 
A pair of diaries,— one serving. Sir, 
For the whole dale, and one for each fire- 
side — 
Yours was a stranger's judgment : for his- 
torians, 
Commend me to these valleys ! 

Leonard. Vet your Cliurch-yard 

Seems, if such freedom may be used with 

you, 
To say tliat you are heedless of the past : 
An orphan could not find his mother's 

grave : 
Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of 

brass, [state 

Cross-bones nor skull, — type of our earthly 
Nor emblem of our hopes : the dead man's 

home 
Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. 

Priest. Why, there, Sir, is a thought 

that's new to me ! 
The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their 

bread 
If every English church-yard were like ours ; 
/et your conclusion wanders from the truth ; 
We have no need of names and epitaphs ; 
We talk about the dead by our fire-sides. 
And then, for our immortal part ! 7vc want 
No symbols. Sir, to tell us that plam talc : 
The thought of death sits easy on the man 
Wlio has been born and dies among the 

mountains. 
Leonard. Your Dalesmen, then, do in 

each other's thoughts 



Possess a kind of second life : no doubt 
You, Sir, could help me to the history 
Of half these graves ? 

Priest. For eight-score winters past, 

With what I've witnessed, and with what 

I've heard. 
Perhaps I might : and, on a winter-evening, 
If you were seated at my chimney's nook, 
By turning o'er these hillocks one by one. 
We two coul.l travel, Sir, through a Strang:. 

round ; 
Yet all in the broad highway of the world. 
Now there's a grave—your foot is half upon 

it,— 
It looks just like the rest ; and yet that man 
Died broken-hearted. 

Leonard. 'Tis a common case. 

We'll take another : who is he that lies 
Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three 
graves ? 
j It touches on that piece of native rock 

Left in the church-yard wall. 
I Priest. That's Walter Ewbank. 

I lie had as white a head and fresh a cheek 
I As ever were produced by youth and age 

Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. 
I Through five long generations had the heart 
Of Walter's forefathers o'erflowed tiic 
I bounds 

Of their inheritance, that single cottage— 
You see it yonder I and those few green 
fields. [to son, 

I They toiled and wrought, and still, from siri 
FLach struggled, and each yielded as before 
' A little— yet a little,— and old Walter, 
j They left to liim the family heart, and lanJ 

With other burthens than the crop it bore. 
, Year after year the old man still kept up 
[ A cheerful mind,— and buffeted with bond, 

Interest, and mortgages ; at last he sank, 
I And went into his grave before his time 
j Poor Walter ! whether it was care that 
j stirred him 

j God only knows, but to the very last 

He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale : 
j His pace was never that of an old man : 

I almost see him tripping down the path 
: With his two grandsons after him :— but 
you. 
Unless our Landlord be your host to-night, 
Have far to travel, — and on these rou[;i- 

paths 
Even in the longest day of midsummer — 
Leonard. But those two Orphans I 
Priest. Orphans !- -Such they wer^-- 
Yet not while Walter lived:— for, though 
their parents 



96 



POEMS FOUNDED ON TtTE AEFECTlONS. 



Lay buried side by side as now they lie, 
The old man was a father to the boys, 
Two fathers in one father : and if tears, 
Shed when he talked of them where they 

were not, 
And hauntings from the infirmity of love, 
Ar, aught of wiiat makes up a mother's 

heart, 
Phis old Man, in the day of his old age, 
Was half a mother to them, — If you weep. 

To hear a stranger talking about strangers, 
Heaven bless you when you are among your 

kindred ! 
Ay — you may turn that way — it is a grave 
Which will bear looking at. 

Leonard. These boys — I hope 

They loved this good old Man ? — 

Priest. They did — and truly : 

But that was what we almost overlooked, 
They were such darlings of each other. 

Yes, 
Though from the cradle they had lived with 

Walter, 
The only kinsman near them, and though he 
Inclined to both by reason ot his age 
With a more fond, familiar tenderness ; 
Tiiey, notwithstanding, had much love to 

spare. 
And it all went into each other's hearts. 
Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, 
Was tWo years taller : 'twas a joy to see. 
To hear, to meet them ! — From their house 

the school 
Is distant three short miles, and in the time 
Of storm and thaw, when every water-course 
And unbridged stream, such as you may 

have noticed 
Crossing our roads at every hundred steps. 
Was swoln into a noisy rivulet. 
Would Leonard then, when elder boys re- 
mained 
At hon^.e, go staggering through the slippery 

fords. 
Bearing his brother on his back. I have seen 

him, 
On windy days, in one of those stray 

brooks. 
Ay, more than once I have seen him, mid- 
leg deep. 
Their two books lying both on a dry stone, 
Upon the hither side, and once I said, 
Ar> I remember, looking round these rocks 
And hills on which we all of us were born. 
That God who made tht great book of the 

world 
Would bless such piety — 



Leonard. It may be then— 

Priest. Never did worthier lads break 

English bread ; 
The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw, 
With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts. 
Could never keep those boys away from 

church, 
Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach. 
Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner 
Among these rocks, and every hollow place 
That venturous foot coiild reach, to one or 

both 
Was known as well as to* the flowers that 

grow there. 
Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the 

hills ; 
They played like two young ravens on the 

crags : [well 

Then they could write, ay, and speak too, as 
As many of their betters — and for Leonard! 
The very night before he went away. 
In my own house 1 put into his hand 
A bible, and I'd wager house and field 
That, if he be alive, he has it yet. 

Leonard. It seems, these Brothers have 

not lived to be 
A comfort to each other — 

Priest. That they might 

Live to such end is what both old and young 
In this our valley all of us have wished. 
And what, for my part, I have often prayed; 
But Leonard — 
Leonard. Then James still is left among 

you! 
Priest. 'Tis of the elder brother I am 

speaking : 
They had an uncle ; — he was at that time 
A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas : 
And, but for that same uncle, to this hour 
Leonard had never handled rope or shroud 
For the boy loved the life which we lead 

here ; 
And though of unripe years, a stripling 

only. 
His soul was knit to this his native soil. 
But, as I said, old Walter was too weak 
To strive with such a torrent ; when he died. 
The estate and house were sold ; and all 

their sheep, 
A pretty flock, and which, for aught 1 know, 
Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand 

years : — 
Well — all was gone, and they were destitute 
And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake 
Resolved to try his fortune on the seas. 
Twelve years are past since wc iiad tidings 

irom him. 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



97 



If there were one among us wlio had heard 
That Leonard Ewbank was come home 

again, 
From the Great Gavel,* down by Leeza's 

banks, 
And down the Enna, far as Egreniunt, 
Tlie day would be a joyous festival ; 
And those two bells of ours, whicli there you 

see — 
Hanging in the open air — but, O good Sir ! 
This" is' sad talk — they'll never sound for 

him— 
Living or dead. — When last we heard of 

him, 
He was in slavery among the Moors 
Upon the Barbary coast. — 'Twas not a 

little 
That would bring down his spirit ; and no 

doubt. 
Before it ended in his death, the Youth 
Was sadly crossed. — Poor Leonard! when 

we parted. 
He took me by the hand, and said to me. 
If e'er he should grow rich, he would re- 
turn, 
To live in peace upon his father's land. 
And lay his bones among us. 

Leonard. If that day 

Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day 

for liim ; 
He would himself, no doubt, be happy then 
As any that should meet him — 

Priest. Happy! Sir — 

Leonard. You said his kindred all were 

in their graves, 
And that he had one Brother — 

Priest. That is but 

A fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youtli 
James, tliough not sickly, yet was delicate ; 
And Leonard being always by his side 
Had done so many offices about him, 
Tiiat, though he was not of a timid nature, 
Yet still the spirit of a mountain-boy 
In him was somewhat checked ; and, when 

his Brother 
Was gone to sea, and he was left alone, 
The little color that he had was soon 
Stolen from his cheek ; he drooped, and 

pined, and pined — 
Leonard. But these are all the graves of 

full-grown men ! 



* Tht Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from 
its resemblance to the gnble end of a house, is 
one of the highest of the Cumberland moun- 
tains. 

The Leeza is a river which flows into the 
Lake of Ennerdale. 



Priest. Ay, Sir, that passed away : we 

took him to us ; 
He was the child of all the dale — he lived 
Three months with one, and six months 

with another ; 
And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor 

love : 
And many, many happy days were his. 
But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief 
His absent Brother still was at his heart. 
And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, wt 

found 
(A practice till this time unknown to him) 
That often, rising from his bed at night. 
He in his sleep would walk about, and 

sleeping 
He sought his brother Leonard. — You are 

moved ! 
Forgive me. Sir : before I spoke to you, 
I judged you most unkindly. 

Leonard. But this Youth, 

How did he die at last ? 

Priest . One sweet May morning, 

(It will be twelve years since when Spring 

returns) 
He had gone forth among the new-dropped 

lambs. 
With two or three companions, whom their 

course 
Of occupation led from height to height 
Under a cloudless sun — till he, at length, 
Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge 
The humor of the moment, lagged behind. 
You see yon precipice ; — it wears the shape 
Of a vast building made of many crags ; 
And in the midst is one particular rock 
That rises like a column from the vale. 
Whence by our shepherds it is called The 

Pillar. 
Upon its aiiry summit crowned with heath, 
The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades, 
Lay stretched at ease ; but, passing by the 

place [g""c. 

On their return, they found that he was 
No ill was feared ; till one of them by 

chance 
Entering, when evening was far spent, the 

house 
Which at that time was James's home, there 

learned 
That nobody had seen him all that day: 
The morning came, and still he was un« 

heard of : 
The neighbors were alarmed, and to the 

brook 
Some hastened : some ran to the lake : en 

noon 



98 



POEMS FOUNDED ON' THE AFFECTIONS. 



Tliey found him at the foot of tliat same 

rock 
Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third 

day after 
i buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies! 
Leonard. And that then is his grave! — 

Before iiis death 
Vou say that he saw many happy years ? 
Priest. Ay, that he did— 
Leonard. And all went well with him ? — 
Priest. If he had one, the youtli had 

twenty homes. 
Leonard. And you believe, then, that his 

mind was easy ? — 
Priest. Yes, long before he died, he found 

that time 
I:, a true friend to sorrow,; and unless 
His thoughts were turned en Leonard's 

luckless fortune, 
He talked about him with a cheerful Idvc. 
Lronafd. He could not come to an un- 
hallowed end! 
Priest. Nay, God forbid! — You recollect 

1 mentioned 
A haijit which disquietude and grief 
Had lirought upon him ; and wc all conjec- 
tured 
Tliat, as the clay was warm, he had lain 

down 
On the soft lieath, — and, waiting for his 

comrades. 
He there had fallen asleep ; tliat in his 

sleep 
He to the margin of the precipice 
Had walked, and from the summit had 

fallen headlong • 
And so no doubt lie perished. When the 

Youth [think, 

Fell, in his hand he must have grasp'd, we 
His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of 

rock 
It had been caught midway ; and there for 

years 
It hung ; — and mouldered there. 

The Priest here ended — 
The Stranger would have thanked him, but 

he felt 
A gushing from his heart, that took away 
The power of speech. Both left the jpo't in 

silence ; 
And Leonard, when they reached the 

church-yard gate. 
As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned 

round, — 
And, looking at the grave, he said, " My 

Brother!" 



The Vicar did not hear the words : and now 
He pointed towards his dwelling-place, ;n 

treating 
That Leonard would partake his homely 

fare : 
The other thanked him with an earnest 

voice ; 
But added, that, the evening being calm, 
He would pursue his journey. So they 

parted. 

It was not long ere Leonard reached a 
grove 
That overhung the road : he there stopjicd 
short, 

And, sitting down beneath the trees, re- 
viewed 
All that the Priest had said : his early years 
Were with him :— liis long absence, chcrislied 

hopes, 
And tliougiits which had been his an hour 

before. 
All prcssecl on him with such a weight that 

now 
This vale, where he had been so happy, 

seemed 
A place in which he could not bear to live ; 
So he relinquished all his purposes. 
He travelled back to Egrcmont : and thence, 
That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, 
Reminding him of what had passed between 

them ; 
And adding, with a hope to be forgiven, 
'J'liai it was from the weakness of his heart 
He had not dared to tell him who he was. 
'J'liis done, he went on shipl)oard, and is now 
A SeaiudU, a gray-headed Maimer. 



ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE. 

(see the chronicle of GEOFFREY OF 
MONMOUTH AND ivIILTON'S HISTORY OF 
ENGLAND.) 

Where be the temples which, in Britain's 

Isle, 
For his paternal Gods, the Trojan laised? 
Gone like a morning dream, or like a i)ile 
Of clouds that ir. cerulean ether blazed ! 
Ere Julius landed on her white-cliffed shore. 

They sank, delivered o'er 
To fatal dissolution ; and, I ween. 
No vestige then was left that such luid 

ever been. 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



99 



Nathless, a British record (long concealed 
In old Armorica, whose secret springs 
No Gothic conqueror ever drank) revealed 
The marvellous current of forgotten things ; 
How Brutus came, by oracles impelled, 

And Albion's giants quelled 
A brood whom no civility could melt, 
" Who never tasted grace, and goodness 
ne'er had felt."' 

By brave Corineus aided, he subdued, 
And rooted out the intolerable kintl ; 
And this too-long-polluted land inibi 
With goodly arts and usages refined ; 
Whence golden harvests, cities, warlike 

towers. 
And pleasure's sumptuous bowers ; 
Whence all the fixed delights of house and 

home, 
Friendships that will not break, and love 

that cannot roam. 
O, happy Britain ! region all too fair 
For self-delighting fancy to endure 
That silence only shoukl inhabit there, 
Wild beasts, or uncoutli savages impure' ! 
But, intermingled with the generous seed, 

Grew many a poisonous weed ; 
Thus fares it still with all that takes its 

birth 
From human care, or grows upon the breast 

of earth. 
Hence, and how soon ! that war of venge- 
ance waged 
By Gucndolcn against licr faithless lord ; 
Till she, in jealous fury unassuagcd 
Had slain his paramour witli ruthless sword : 
Then into Severn hideously defiled. 

She flung her blameless child, 
Sabrina.— vowing that the stream should 

bear 
That name through every age, her hatred to 

declare. 

So speaks the Chronicle, and tells of Lear 
By his ungrateful daughters turned adrift. 
Ye lightnings, hear his voice!— they cannot 

hear. 
Nor can the winds restore his simple gift. 
But One there is, a Child of nature meek, 

Who comes her Sire to seek, 
And he, recovering sense, upon her breast 
Leans smilingly, and sinks into a perfect 

rest. 
There too we read of Spenser's fairy themes, 
And those that Milton luved in youthful 

years ; 
The sage enchanter Merlin's subtle schemes ; 



The feats of Arthur and his knightly pter«? ; 
Of Aithur, — who to upper light restored, 

Witli that terrific sword 
Which yet he brandishes for future war. 
Shall lift his country's fame abc.e the polat 
star ! 

What wonder, then, ii in such ample field 
Of old tradition, one particular flower 
Doth seemingly in vain its fragrance yield 
Ar.d bloom unnoticed even to this late hour \ 
Now, gentle Muses, your assistance grant, 

While I tliis flower transplant 
Into a garden stored with Poesy ; 
Where flowers and herbs unite, and liapW 

some weeds be, 
That, wanting not wild grace, are from ;ill 

mischief free ! 

A King more worthy of respect and iovc 
Than wise Gorbonian ruled not in his day ; 
And grateful Britain prospered far above 
All neighboring countries through lus 

righteous sway ; 
He poured rewards and honors on the good; 

The oppressor he withstood ; 
And while he served the Gods witli rever- 
ence due 
Fields smiled, and temples rose, and towns 
and cities grew. 

He died, whom ,\rtegal succeeds — his son 
But how unworthy of that sire was he ! 
A hopeful reign, auspiciously begun. 
Was darkened soon by foul iniquity. 
From crime to crime he mounted, till ?.t 

length 
The nobles leagued their strength 
W'ith a vexed people, and the tyrant chased ; 
And, on the vacant throne, his worthier 

brother placed. 

From realm to realm the humble Exile went, 

Suppliant for aid his kingdom to regain ; 

In many a court, and many a warrior's tent, 

He urged his persevering suit in vain. 

Him, in whose wretched heart ambition 
failed. 
Dire poverty assailed ; 

And, tired with slights his pride no. more 
could brook, 

He towards his native country cast a long- 
ing look. 

Fair blew the wished-for wind— the voyag* 

sped ; 
He landed ; and, by many dangers scared, 
*' Poorly provided, poorly followM," 
To Calaterium's forest he rtpaire4» 



100 



POEMS FOUNDED OAT THE AFFECTIONS. 



How changed from him who, born to highest 
p'acc, 
Had swayed the royal mace, 
Flattered and feared, despised yet deified, 
In Troynovant, his seat by silver Thames's 
side 1 

From that wild region wOiere the crownless 

King 
Lay in concealment with his scanty train, 
Supporting life by water from the spring, 
And such chance food as outlaws can obtain, 
Unto the few whom he esteems his friends 

A messenger he sends ; 
And from their secret loyalty requires 
Shelter and daily bread, — the sum of his 
desires. 

While he the issue waits, at early morn 
Wandering by stealth abroad, he chanced to 

liear 
A startling outcry made by hound and horn, 
I'"rom which the tusky wild boar flies in fear ; 
And, scouring toward him o'er the grassy 
]ilain. 
Behold the hunter train ! 
He bids his little company advance 
With seeming unconcern and steady coun- 
tenance. 

The royal Elidure. who leads the chase. 
Hath tiieckcd his foaming courser : — can it 

be! 
Mothinks that I should recognize that face, 
Though much disguised by long adversity I 
He gazed rejoicing, and again he gazed, 

Confounded and amazed — 
" It is the king, my brother ! " and, by sound 
Of his own voice confirmed, he leaps upon 
the ground. 

Long, strict, and tender was the embrace he 
gave, 

Feebly returned by daunted Artegal ; 

Whose natural affection doubts enslave, 

And apprehensions dark and criminal. 

Loth to restrain the moving interview, 
Tiie attendant lortls withdrew ; 

And, while they stood upon the plain apart, 

Thus Klidure, by words, relieved his strug- 
gling heart. 

" By heavenly Powers conducted, we have 

met ; 
—O Brother ! to my knowledge lost so long. 
But neither lost to love, nor to regret, 
J^or tp my wishes lost ; — forgive the wrong, 



(Such it may seem) if I thy crown hav« 

borne, 
Thy royal mantle worn : 
I was their natural guardian ; and 'tis just 
That now I should restore what hath been 

held in trust." 

Awhile the astonished Artegal stood mute, 
Then thus exclaimed; "To me, of titles 

shorn, 
And stripped of power ! me, feeble, destitute. 
To me a kingdom ! spare the bitter scorn : 
if justice ruled the breast of foreign kings, 

Then, on the wide-spread wings 
Of war, had 1 returned to claim my right ; 
This will I here avow, not dreading thy 

despite." 

" I do not blame thee," Elidure replied ; 
" But, if my looks did with my words agree, 
I should at once be trusted, not defied, 
And thou from all disquietude be free. 
May the unsullied Goddess of the chase, 

Who to this blessed place 
At this blest moment led me, if I speak 
With insincere intent, on me her vengeance 
wreak ! 

Were this same spear, which in my hand I 

grasp, 
The British sceptre, here would I to thee 
The symbol yield , and would undo this 

clasp. 
If it confined the robe of sovereignty. 
Odious to me the pomp of regal court, 

And joyless sylvan sport, 
While thou art roving, wretched and forlorn, 
Thy couch the dewy earth, thy roof the 

forest thorn ! " 

Then Artegal thus spake : " I only sought 
Within this realm a place of safe retreat ; 
Beware of rousing an ambitious thought ; 
Beware of kindling hopes, for me unmeet I 
Thou art reputed wise, but in my mind 

Art pitiably blind : 
Full soon this.generous purpose thou may'st 

rue. 
When that which has been done no wishes 
can undo. 

Who, when a crown is fixed upon his head, 
Would balance claim with claim, and right 

with right ? 
But thou — I know not how inspired, how 

led— 
Wouldst change the course of things in al] 

Hicu's sight ! 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



101 



And this for one who cannot imitate 

Thy virtue, who may hate : 
For, if, by such stran'^e sacrifice restored, 
He reign, thou still must be his king and 
sovereign lord ; 

Lifted in magnanimity above 
Aught that my feeble nature could perform, 
Or even conceive ; surpassing me m love 
Far as in power the eagle doth the worm : 
I, Brother ! only should be king in name, 

And govern to my shame ; 
A shadow in a hated land, while all 
Of glad or willing service to thy share would 
fall." 

•' Believe it not," said Elidure ; " respect 
Awaits on virtuous life, and ever most 
Attends on goodness with dominion decked. 
Which stands the universal empire's boast , 
This can thy own experience testify ; 

Nor shall thy foes deny 
That, in the gracious opening of thy reign. 
Our father's spirit seemed in thee to breathe 



And what if o'er that bright unbosoming 
Clouds of disgrace and envious fortune past ! 
Have we not seen the glories of the spring 
By veil of noontide darkness overcast ? 
Tlie frith that glittered like a warrior's 
shield. 
The sky, the rnv green field. 
Are vanished ; gladiiess ceases in the groves, 
And trepidation strikes the blackened moun- 
tain coves. 

But is that gloom dissolved, how passing 

clear 
Seems the wide world, far brighter than 

before ! 
Even so thy latent worth will re-appear. 
Gladdening the people's heart from shore to 

shore ; 
For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone; 

Re-seatcd on thy throne, 
Proof shalt thou furnish that misfortune, 

pain, 
And sorrow, have confirmed thy native right 

to reign. 

But, not to overlook what thou may'stknow, 
Thy enemies are neither weak nor few ; 
And circumspect must be our course, and 

slow, 
Or from my purpose ruin may ensue. 
Dismiss thy followers ; — let them calmly 

wait 
Such changes in thy estate 



As I already have m thought devised ; 
And which, with caution due, may soon b« 

realized." 

The Story tells what courses were pursued. 
Until king Elidure, with full consent 
Of all his peers, before the multitude, 
Rose, — and, to consummate this just intent, 
Did place u})on his brother's head the crown, 

Relinquished by his own ; 
Then to his people cried, " Receive your 

lord, 
Gorbonian's first-born son, your rightful 

king restored ! " 

The people answered with a loud acclaim : 
Yet more ;— heart-smitten by the heroic 

deed. 
The reinstated Artegal became 
Earth's noblest penitent ; from bondage 

freed 
Of vice — thenceforth unable to subvert 

Or shake his high desert. 
Long did he reign ; and, when he died, the 

tear 
Of universal grief bedewed his honored bier. 

Thus was a Brother by a Brother saved ; 
With whom a crown (temptation that hath 

set 
Discord in hearts of men till they have 

braved 
Their nearest kin with deadly purpose met) 
'Gainst duty weighed, and faithful love, did 

seem 
A thing of no esteem ; 
Anil from this triumph of affection pure, 
He bore the lasting name of " Pious Eli' 

dure!" 
1815. 



TO A BUTTERFLY. 
I've watch'd you now a full half-hour, 
Self-poised upon that yellow flower ; 
And, little Butterfly ! indeed 
I know not if you sleep or feed. 
How motionless ! — not frozen seas 
More motionless ! and then 
W^bat joy awaits you, when the breeze 
Hath found you out among the trees, 
And calls you forth again ! 

Tills plot of orchard-ground is ours ; 
My trees they are, my Sister's Howns , 
Here rest voiir wings when thcvare weary; 
Here lodge ai in a sanctuary ! 



tC3 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



Come often to us, fear no wrong; 
Sit near us on the bough ! 
We'll talk of sunshine and of song, 
And summer days, when we were young 
Sweet childish days, that were as long 
As twenty days are now. 
iSoi. 



IV. 

A FAREWELL. 

Farewell, thou little Nook of mountain- 
ground, 
Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair 
Of that magnificent temple which doth 

bound 
One side of our whole vale with grandeur 

rare ; 
Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair, 
The loveliest spot that man hath ever found, 
Farewell! — we leave thee to Heaven's 

peaceful care. 
Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost sur- 
round. 

Our boat is safely anchored by the shore. 
And there will safely ride when we are gone ; 
The flowering shrubs that deck our humble 

door 
Will prosper, though unttnded and alone : 
Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have 

none : 
These narrow bounds contain our private 

store 
Of things earth makes, and sun doth shine 

upon ; 
Here are they in our sight — we have no 

more. 

Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and 

bell ! 
For two months now in vain we shall be 

sought ; 
We leave you here in solitude to dwell 
Wit!) these our latest gifts of lender thought; 
Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat, 
Briglit govvan, and marsh-marigold, fare- 

welfj 
Whom from the borders of the Lake we 

brought, 
Anu placed together near our rocky Well. 

We go for One to whom ye will be dear ; 
And she will prize this Bower, this Indian 

shed, 
Our own contrivance, Building without 

petr I 



— A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred, 
Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered, 
With joyousness, and with a thoughtful 

cheer, 
Will come to you ; to you herself wi" wed ; 
And love the blessed life that we leaa iicre. 

Dear Spot ! which we have watched with 

tender heed, 
Bringing the chosen plants and blossoms 

blown 
Among the distant mountains, flower and 

weed. 
Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own. 
Making all kindness registered and known. 
Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child 

indeed, 
Fair in thyself and beautiful alone, 
Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need. 

And O most constant, yet most fickle 

Place, 
That hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost 

show 
To them who look not daily on thy face ; 
Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost 

know, 
And say'st, when we forsake thee, " Let 

them go I " 
Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race 
Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow, 
And travel with the year at a soft pace. 

Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by, 
And this sweet spring, the best beloved and 

best; 
Joy will be flown in its mortality; 
Something must stay to tell us of th<' rest. 
Here, tlironged with primroses, the steep 

rock's breast 
Glittered at eveni,ng like a starry sky ; 
And in this bush our sparrow built her nest, 
Of which I sang one song that will not die. 

O happy Garden ! whose seclusion deep 
Hath been so friendly to industrious hours , 
And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep 
Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of 

flowers. 
And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers, 
Two burning months let summer overleap, 
And, coming back with Her who will beouri 
Into thy bosom we again shall creep. 
1802, 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



1^3 



STANZAS. 



WRITTEN IN MY POCKET-COPY OF THOM- 
SON'S CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. 

Within our happy Castle there dwelt One 
Whom without blame 1 may not overlook ; 
For never sun on living creature shone 
Who more devout enjoyment with us took ; 
Here on his hours he hung as on a book, 
On his own time here would he float away, 
v\s doth a fly upon a summer brook ; 
Hut go to-morrow, or belike to-day, 
beck lor him,— he is fled ; and whither 
none can say. 

Thus often would he leave our peaceful 

home, 
And fmd elsewhere his business or delight ; 
Out of our Valley's limits did he roam : 
Full many a time, upon a stormy ivght, 
His voice came to us from the neighboring 

height : 
Oft could we see him driving full in view 
At mid-day when the sun was shining 

bright ; 
What ill was on him, what he had to do, 
A mighty wonder bred among our quiet 

crew. 

Ah ! piteous sight it was to see this Man 
When he came back to us, a withered 

flower, — 
Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan. 
Down would he sit ; and without strength 

or power 
Look at the common grass from hour to 

hour : 
And oftentimes, how long I fear to say. 
Where apple-trees in blossom made a 

bower, 
Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay ; 
And, like a naked Indian, slept himself 

away. 

Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was 
Whenever from our Valley he withdrew ; 
F^or happier soul no. living creature has 
Than he had, being here the long day 

through. 
Some thought he was a lover, and did woo: 
Some thought far worse of him, and judged 

him wrong ; 
But verse was what he had been wedded 

to: 



And his own mind did like a tempest strong 
Come to him thus, and drove the weary 
Wight along. 

With him there often walked in friendly 

guise, 
Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree, 
A noticeable Man, with large gray eyes, 
And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly 
As if a blooming face it ought to be; 
Heavy his low -hung lip did oft appear, 
Deprest by weight of musing Phantasy ; 
Profound his forehead was, though not se- 
vere ; 
Yet some did think that he had little busi- 
ness here : 

Sweet heaven forefend ! his was a lawful 

right ; 
Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy ; 
His limbs would toss about him with de- 
light, 
Like branches when strong winds the trees 

annoy. 
Nor lacked his calmer hours device or toy 
To banish l.stlessness and irksome care , 
He would have taught you how you might 

employ 
Yourself ; and many did to him repair, — 
And certes not in vain ; he had inventions 
rare. 

Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried : 
Long blades of grass plucked round him as 

he lay. 
Made, to his ear attentively applied, 
A pipe on which the wind would deftly 

play ; 
Glasses he had, that little things display, 
The beetle panoplied in gems of gold, 
A mailed angel on a' battle-day ; 
The mysteries that cups of flowers enfold, 
And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do 

behold. 

He would entice that other Man to hear 
His music, and to view his imagery : 
And, sooth, these two were each to the 

other dear ; 
No livelier love in such a place could be : 
There did they dwell— from earthly labor 

free, 
As happy spirits as were ever seen ; 
If but a bird, to keep them company, 
Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween. 
As pleased as if the same had been a 

Maiden-queen. 
1802. 



104 



POEMS I'OUNPEJ) OiV THE AFFECriONS. 



VI. 

LOUISA. 

AFTER ACCOMPANYING HER ON A MOUN- 
TAIN EXCURSION. 

I MET Louisa in the shade, 

And, having seen tiiat lovely Maid, 

Why should I fear to say 

That, nymph-likc, she is fleet and strong. 

And down the rocks can leap along 

Like rivulets in May ? 

She loves her fire, her cottage home ; 
Yet o'er the moorland will she roam 
In weather rough and bleak ; 
And, when ;u^ainst the wind she strains, 
Oil ! might 1 kiss the mountain rains 
That sparkle on her cheek. 

Take all that's mine "beneath the moon," 

It 1 witii her but half a noon 

May sit beneath the walls 

Ot some old cave, or mossy nook, 

When up she winds along the brook 

To hunt the waterfalls. 

•~f8'o5. 



VII. 

Strange fits of passion have 1 known : 

And I will dare to tell, 

But in the Lover's ear alone 

What once to me befel. 

When she I loved looked every day 
Fresh as a rose in June, 
I to her cottage bent my way, 
Beneath an evening moon. 

Upon the moon I fixed my eye, 

All over the wide lea ; 

With quickening pace my liorse drew nigh 

Those paths so dear to me. 

And now we reached the orchard-plot ; 
And, as we climbed the hill, 
The sinking moon to Lucy's cot 
Came near, and nearer still. 

In one of those sweet dreams I slept, 
Kind Nature's gentlest boon ! 
And all the while my eyes I kept 
On the descending moon. 

My horse moved on ; hoof after hoof 
\\c rais-vd, and never stopped : 
When down behind the cottage-roof, 
At once, the bright moon dropped. 



What fond and wayward thoughts will siiil« 
Into a Lover's head ! 
" O mercy ! " to myself I cried, 
" If Lucy should be dead!" 
1799. 



She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the sprnigs of Dove, 
A Maid whom there were none to }iiaisp 

And very few to love : 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half hidden from the eye ! 
— Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few C(.uld know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is ni Jier gnive, and, oh. 

The difference to me 1 
1790. 



IX, 

I travelled among unknown men, 

In lands beyond the sea ; 
Nor, England I did 1 know till then 

What love 1 bore to thee. 

'Tis past, that melancholy dream I 

Nor will I quit thy shore 
A second time ; for still I seem 

To love thee more and more. 

Among thy mountains did I feel 

The joy of my dcbue ; 
And she I cherished turned her wheel ) 

Beside an English tire. 

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed 
The bowers where Lucy played ; 

.\nd thine too is the last green field j 
That Lucy's eyes surveyed. ,/ 
1799. 



Ere with cold beads of midnight clew 

Had mingled tears of thine, 
I grieved, fond Youth ! that thou shouldst 
sue 

To haughty Geraldine. 

Immovable by generous sighs. 

She glories in a train 
Who drag, beneath our native skieSj 

An oriental chain. 



Poems founded on the affections. 



I OS 



Pine not like them with arms across, 

Forgetting in thy care 
How tlie fast-rooted trees can toss 

Their branches in mid air. 

The humblest rivulet will take 

Its own wild liberties ; 
And, rvery day, the imprisoned lake 

Is Howing m the breeze. 

Then, crouch no more on suppliant knee, 
But scorn with scorn outbrave ; 

A Briton, even in love, should be 
A subject, not a slave ! 
1826. 



TO . 

IvOOK at the fate of summer flowers, 
Which blow at daybreak, droop ere even- 
song : 
And, grieved for their brief date, confess 

that ours, 
Measured by vvlKit we are and ought to be, 
Measured by all that, trembling, we foresee, 
Is not so long ! 

If human Life do pass away, 
Perishing yet more swiftly than the flower, 
if we are creatures of a winter'' s day ; 
What space hath Virgin's beauty to disclose 
Her sweets, and triumph o'er the breathing 
rose ? 

Not even an hour ! 

The deepest grove whose foliage hid 
The happiest lovers Arcady might boast 
Could not the entrance of this thouglit 

forbid : 
O be thou wise as they, soul-gifted Maid ! 
Nor rate too high what must so quickly 

fade. 

So soon be lost. 

Then shall love teach some virtuous Youth 
'•' To draw, out of the object of his eyes," 
The while on thee they eaze in simple 

truth, 
Hues more exalted, "a refined Form,'' 
That dreads not age, nor suffers from the 
worm. 

And never dies. 
1824. 



XII. 



THE FORSAKEN. 



The peace which others seek they find; 

The heaviest storms not longest last ; 

Heaven grants even to the guiltie.st mind 

An amnesty for what is past; 

When will my sentence be reversed? 

I only pray to know the worst ; 

And wish as if my heart would burst. 

O weary struggle ! silent years 
Tell seemingly no doubtful talc ; 
And yet tliey leave it sliort, and fears 
And hopes are strong and will prevail 
My calmest faith escapes not pain : 
And, feeling that the hope is vain, 



1 Ihink that he will come again. 



XIII 



'Tis said, that some have died for love : 
And here and there a church-yard grave is 

found 
In*the cold north's unhallowed ground, 
Because the wretched man himself had 

slain 
His love was such a grievous pain. 
xAnd there is one whom I five years have 

known ; 
He dwells alone 
Ujion Hclvcllyn's side : 
He loved — tlie pretty Barbara-died; 
And tluis he makes his moan : 
Three years had Barbara in her grave been 

laid 
When thus his moan he made : 

' Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind (ii.it 

oak ! 
Or let the aged tree uprooted lie. 
That in some other way yon smoke 
May mount into the sky ! 
The clouds pass on ; they from the he.ivens 

depart : 
I look— the sky is empty space ; 
I know not what I trace ; 
But when 1 cease to look, my hand is on my 

heart. 

O ! what a weight is in these shades ! Ye 

leaves. 
That murmur once so dear, when will it 

cease .? 
Your sound my heart of rest bereaves, 
It robs my heart of peace. 



io6 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



Thou Thrush, that singest loud— and loud 

and free, 
Into yon row of willows flit, 
Upon that alder sit ; 
Or sing another song, or choose another tree. 

Roll back, sweet Rill ! back to thy moun- 
tain-bounds, 

And there forever be thy waters chained ! 

For thou dost haunt the air with sounds 

'J'hat cannot be sustained ; 

If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough 

Ilea Hong yon waterfall must come, 

Oh let it then be dumb ! 

Be anything, sweet Rill, but that which 
thou art now. 

Thou Eglantine, so bright with sunny 

showers, 
Proud as a rainbow spanning half the vale, 
Thou one fair shrub, oh ! shed thy flowers. 
And stir not in the gale. 
For thus to see thee nodding in the air. 
To see thy arch thus stretch and bend. 
Thus rise and thus descend, — 
Disturbs me till the sight is more thjjn I 

can bear.'' 

The Man who makes this feverish complaint 
Is one of giant stature, who could dance 
Equipped from head to foot in iron mail. 
Ah gentle Love ' if ever thought was thine 
To store up kindred hours for me, thy face 
Turn from me, gentle Love ! nor let me 

walk 
Within the soimd of Emma's voice, nor 

know 
Such happiness as 1 have known to-day. 
1 800, 



A COMPLAINT, 

There is a change— and I am poor : 
Your Love hath been, nor long ago, 
A fountain at my fond heart's duor, 
Whose only business was to How ; 
And flow it did : not taking heed 
Of its own bounty, or my need. 

What happy moments did I count ! 
Blest was I then all bliss above ! 
Now, for that consecrated fount 
Of murmuring, sparkling, living love, 
What iiave 1 '? shall 1 dare to tell ? 
A comfortless and hidden well. 



k well of love — it naay be deep— 
1 trust it is, — and never dry : 
What matter .'' if the waters sleep 
In silence and obscurity. 
— Such change, and at the very door 
Of my fond heart, hath made me po<>r. 
1806. 



TO 



Let other bards of angels sing, 
IJnght suns without a spot ; 

But thou art no such perfect thing : 
Rejoice that thou art not ! 

Heed not tho' none should call thee fair' 

So, Mary, let it be 
If naught in loveliness compare 

With what thou art to me. 

True beauty dwells in deep r^reats, 

Wliose veil is unrempved 
Till heart with heart in concord beat^, 

And the lover is beloved. 
1824. 



XVI. 

Yes ! thou art fair, yet be not moved 

To scorn the declaration, 
That sometimes I in thee have loved 

My fancy's own creation. 

Imagination needs must stir: 
bear Maid, this truth believe, 

Minds that have nothing to confts 
Find little to perceive. 

Be pleased that nature made thee fit 
To fed my heart's devotion, 

By laws to which all Forms submit 
In sky, air, earth, and ocean. 



How rich that forehead's calm expanse I 

How bright that heaven-directed glance! 

- Waft her to glory, winged Powers, 

Ere sorrow be renewed. 

And intercourse with mortal hours 

Bring back a humbler mood ! 

So looked Cecilia when she drew 

An Angel from his station ; 

So looked ; not ceasing to pursue 

Her tuneful adoration ! 



POEMS rOViYDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



107 



But hand and voice alike are still ; 
No sound here sweeps away the will 
Tliat save it birth : in service meek 
One ui)nj;l»t arm sustains the cheek, 
And one across tlie bosom lies — 
Tliat rose, and now forgets to rise, 
Subdued by breathless harmonies 
C)f meditative feehng ; 
Mule strains from worlds beyond tlie skies, 
Through the pure light of female eyes, 
Their sanctity revealing ! 
1S24. 



What heavenly smiles ! O Lady mii .■ 
Tlirough my very heart they shincj 
And, if my brow gives back their Tight, 
Do thou look gladly on the sight ; 
As the clear Moon with modest pride 

Beholds her own bright beams. 
Retiec'ed from the mountain's side 

And from the headlong streams. 



TO 



O DEARER far than light and life are dear, 
Full oft our human foresight 1 deplore ; 
Trembling, through my unworthiness, with 

fear 
That friends, by death disjoined, may meet 

no more 1 

Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control. 
Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest ; 
While all the future, for thy purer soul. 
With " sober certainties " of love is blest. 

That sigh of thine, not meant for human ear 
Tells that these words thy humbleness oi 

fend; 
Vet l)ear me up — else faltering in the rear 
Of a steep march : support me to the end. 

^ Peace settles where the intellect is meek. 
And Love is dutiful in thought and deed ; 
Through Thee communion with that Love 

I seek : 
The faith Heaven strengthens where he 
moulds the Creed. 
1^24. 



LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF 
SCOTS. 

ON THE EVE OK A NEW YEAR. 
I. 

Smile of the Moon ! — for so I name 

That silent greeting from above ; 

A gentle flash of light that came 

From her whom drooping captives love , 

Or art thou of still higher birth ? 

Thou that didst part the clouds of earthy 

My torDcr to reprove ! 

II. 
lirignt boon of pitying Heaven !— alas, 
1 may not trust thy placid cheer ! 
rondcring that Time to-night will pass 
The threshold of another year. 
For years to me are sad and dull ; 
M y very moments are too full 
Of hopelessness and fear. 

III. 
And yet, the soul-awakening gleam, 
'ihat struck perchance the fartliest . one 
Of Scotland's rocky wilds, did seem 
To viiit me, and mc alone ; 
Me, unapprcached by any friend, 
Save those who to my sorrows lend 
Tears due unto their own. 

IV. 

To-night the church-tower bells will ring 
Through these wide realms a festive peal; 
To the new year a welcoming ; 
A tuneful offering for the weal 
Of happy millions lulled in sleep ; 
While I am forced to watch and weep, 
By wounds that may not heal. 

V. 

Horn all too high, by wedlock raised 
Still higher— to be cast thus low ! 
Would that mine eyes had never gazed 
On aught of more ambitious show 
I Than the sweet flowerets of the tields ! 
—It is my royal state that yields 
This bitterness of woe. 



Yet how ? — for I, if there be truth 
In the world's voice, was passing fair; 
And beauty, for confiding youth, 
Those shocks of passion cai. prepare 
That kill the bloom before its time ; 
Ana blanch, withi.iil the (wner's criiae, 
The most resplendent hair. 



io5 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



VII. 

Unblest distinction ! showered on me 
To bind a lini;ering life in chains . 
All that could quit my gras;i, or flee, 
Is gone ;— but not the subtle stains 
Fixed in the sj)irit; for even here 
Can I be proud that jealous fear 
Of what I was remains. 

VIII. 

A Woman rules rny prison's key 
A sister Queen, against the bent 
Of law and holiest sympathy, 
Detains me, doubtful of tlie event ; 
Great God, who feel'st for my distress, 
My tlioughts are all that I possess, 
O keep them innocent ! 



Farewell desire of human aid. 
Which abject mortals vainly court : 
By friends deceived, by foes betrayed, 
C r fears the j^rey, of hopes the sj^ort ; 
Naught but the world-redeeming Cross 
Is able to supply my loss, 
My burthen to support. — 

X, 

Hark ! the death-note of the year 
Sounded by tlie castle-clock ! 
From her sunk eves a stagnant tear 
Stole forth, unsettled by the shock ; 
But oft the woods renewed their green, 
Ere the tired head of Scotland's Queen 
Reposed upon Uie block ! " 



XXI. 

THE COMPLAINT 

OF A rORSAKTJN INDIAN WOMAN. 

[When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is 
unable to continue his joiuney with his 
companions, he is left behind, covered 
over with deer-skins, and is supi)]iL-d with 
water, food, and fuel, if the situation of 
tlie i)lace will afford it. He is informed 
of the track which his companions intend 
to pursue, and if he be unable to follow, 
or overtake them, he perishes alone in the 
desert; unless he should have the good 
fortune to fall in with some other tribes 
of Indians. The females are e(|ua]ly, or 
still more, exposed to the same late. See 
tliat very interesting work, " Ilearne's 



Journey from Hudson's Bay to the North- 
ern Ocean.'' Jn tlie high northern lati- 
tudes, as the same writer informs us, wlien 
the northern lights vary their position in 
the air, they make a rustling and a crack- 
ling noise, as alluded to in the following 
poem.] 

I. 

Before I see another day. 

Oh let my body die away ! 

In sleep I heard the northern gleams ; 

The stars, they were among my dreams j 

In rustling conflict through tlie skies, 

I heard, I saw tiie flashes drive. 

And yet they are upon my eyes, 

And yet I am alive ; 

Before I see another day, 

Oh let my body die away ! 



My fire is dead : it knew no pain ; 

Yet is it dead, and I remain : 

All stiff with ice the ashes lie; 

And they are dead, and 1 will die. 

When I was well, I wished to live,, 

For clotlies, for warmth, for food, and firej 

But they to me no joy can give. 

No })leasure now, and no desire. 

Then here contented will I lie ! 

Alone, I cannot fear to die. 

HI. 

Alas ! ye might have dragged me on 

Aiiotlier day, a single one ! 

Too soon I yielded to despair ; 

VViiy did ye listen to my jirayer ? 

When ye were gone my limbs were stronger 

And oh, how grievously I rue 

I'hat, afterwards, a little longer 

My friends, I did not follow you ! 

h'or strong and without pain 1 lay, 

L,)ear friends, wlien ye were gone away. 



My Child ! they gave thee to another, 
A woman who was not thy mother. 
When from my arms my Babe they took- 
On me how strangely did he look ! 
Through his wiiole body something ran, 
A most strange working did I see ; 
— As if he strove to be a man. 
That he might pull the sledge for me : 
And then he stretclied his arms, how wild I 
Oh mercy ! like a helpless child. 



-^ 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



109 



My Jittlc joy ! my little pride ! 
In two days more I must have died. 
Then do not weep and grieve for me ; 
I feel I must have died with thee. 

wind, that o'er my head art flying 

'Jhc way my friends their course did bend, 

1 should not feel the pain of dying, 
Could I with thee a message send ; 
Too soon, my friends, >e went away ; 
For I had many things to say. 



I'll follow you across the snow; 

Yp travel heavily and slow; 

In spite of all my weary pain 

rii look upon your tents again. 

— :,Iy fire is dead, and snowy white 

The water wliich beside it stood : 

The wolf has come to me to-night, 

And he has stolen away my food. 

Forever left alone am I ; 

Then wherefore should 1 fear to die? 

VII. 

Young as I am, my course is run, 
I shall not see another sun ; 
I cannot lift my limbs to know 
If they have any life or no 
My poor forsaken Child, if I 
For once could have thee close to me, 
With happy heart I then would die, 
^nd my last thought would happy be ; 
Put thou, dear Babe, art far away, 
Nor shall 1 see another day. 
1798. 



XXII. 

THE LAST OF THE FLOCK. 
I. 

In distant countries have I been, 
And yet 1 have not often seen 
A healthy man, a man full grown. 
Weep in the p«blic roads, alone. 
But such a one, on English ground, 
And in the broad highway, 1 met; 
Along the broad highway he came. 
His cheeks with tears were wet : 
Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad ; 
And in his arms a Lamb he had. 

II. 

He saw me, and he turned aside, 
As if he wished himself to hide : 



And with his coat did then essay 

To wipe those briny tears away, 

I followed him, and said, " My friend, 

What ails you ? Wherefore weep you so ? ' 

— " Shame on me, Sir ! this lusty Lamb, 

He makes mv tears to flow. 

To-day I fetched him from the rock ; 

He is the last of all my flock. 



When I was young, a single man. 
And after youthful follies ran. 
Though little given to care and thought, 
Yet, so it was, an ewe I bought ; 
And other sheep from her I raised, 
As healthy sheep as you might see ; 
And then I married, and was rich 
As I could wish to be ; 
Of sheep I numbered a full score, 
And every year increased my store. 

IV. 

Year after year my stock it grew ; 
And from this one, this single ewe, 
Full fifty comely sheep 1 raised. 
As fine a flock as ever grazed ! 
Upon the Ouantock hills they fed ; 
They throv'e, and we at home did thrive 
—This lusty Lamb of all my store 
Is all that IS alive ; 
And now I care not if we die, 
And perish all of poverty. 

V. 

Six Children, Sir ! had T to feed ; 
Hard labor In a time of need ! 
My pride was tamed, and in our grief 
I of the Parish asked relief. 
They said, I was a wealthy man ; 
My sheep upon the uplands fed. 
And it was fit that thence I took 
Whereof to buy us bread. ^ 

' Do this-, how can wc give to you. 
They cried, ' what to the poor is due i f 



1 sold a sheep, as they had said. 
And bought my little children bread. 
And they were healthy with their food: 
For me— it never did me good. 
A woeful time it was for me, 
To see the end of all my gains. 
The pretty flock which I had reared 
With all my care and pains, 
To see it melt like snow away— 
For me it was a woeful day. 



POEMS FOUNDED ON' THE AFFECTIONS. 



VII. 

Another still ! and still another ! 
A little lamb, and then its motlier ! 
It was a vein that never stopped — 
Like blood-drops from my heart they 

dropped. 
Till thirty were not left alive, 
They dwindled, dwindled, one by one ; 
And I may say, that many a time 
I wished they all were gone — 
Reckless of what might come at last 
Were but the bitter struggle past. 

VIII. 

To wicked deeds I was inclined. 

And wicked fancies crossed my mind, 

And every man 1 chanced to see, 

I thought he knew some ill of me ; 

No peace, no comfort could I find, 

No ease, within doors or without ; 

And, crazily and wearily 

I went my work about ; 

And oft was moved to flee from home. 

And hide my head where wild beasts roam. 

IX. 

Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me, 

As dear as my own children be ; 

For daily with my growing store 

I loved my children more and more. 

Alas ! it was an evil time ; 

God cursed me in my sore distress; 

I prayed, yet every day I thought 

I loved my children less ; 

And every week, and every day. 

My flock it seemed to melt away. 



They dwindled. Sir, sad sight to see ! 
,From ten to five, from five to three, 
A lamb, a wether, and a ewe ; — 
And then at last from three to two; 
And, of my fifty, yesterday 
I !iad but only one : 
And here it lies upon my arm, 
Alas ! and 1 have none ; — 
To-day I fetched it from the rock ; 
It is the last of all my flock." 

1798. 

• ♦— -- 

XXIII. 

REPENTANCE. 

A PASTORAL BALLAD. 

TiiK fields which with covetous spirit we 

sold, 
Those beautiful fields, the delight of the day. 



Would have brought us more good than «, 

burthen of gold, 
Could we but liave been as contented as 

they. 

When the troublesome Tempter beset 115, 

said I, 
" Let him come, with his purse proudly 

grasped in his hand ; 
But, Allan, be true to me, Allan, — we'll die 
Before he shall go with an inch of the land !" 

There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their 

bowers ; 
Unfettered as bees that in gardens abide ; 
We could do what we liked with the land, it 

was ours ; 
And for us the brook murmured that ran by 

its side. 

But now we are strangers, go early or late; 
And often, like one overburthcncd with sin. 
With my hand on the latch of the half- 
opened gate, 
I look at the fields, but I cannot go in ! 

When I walk by the hedge on a bright 

summer's day. 
Or sit in the shade of my grandfather's tree, 
A stern face it puts on, as if ready to say, 
'' What ails you, that you must come creep* 

ing to me ! " 

With our pastures about us, we could not be 

sad; 
Our comiort was near if we ever were crest 
But the comfort, tlie blessings, and wealth 

that we had. 
We slighted them all, — and our birth-right 
was lost. 

Oh, Ill-judging sire of an innocent son 

Who must now be a wanderer ! but peace 

to tiiat strain ! 
Think of evening's repose when our labor 

was done. 
The Sabbath's return, and its leisure's soft 

chain ! » 

And in sickness, if night had been sparing 

of sleep. 
How cheerful, at sunrise, the hill where 1 

stood, 
Looking down on the kine, and our treasure 

of sheep 
Th.\t besprinkled the field ; 'twas like youtli 

in my blood 1 



POEMS I-ViWDEJ) ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



Ill 



Now 1 cleave to the house, and am dull as a 

snail ; 
And, oftentimes, hear the church-bell with a 

sigh, 
That follows the thought — We've no land in 

the vale, 
Save six feet of earth where our forefathers 

lie! 
1804. 



THE AFFLICTION OF MAR- 
GARET . 



Where art thou, my beloved Son, 
Where art thou, worse to me tlian dead ? 
Oh find me, prosperous or undone 1 
Or, if the grave be now thy bed. 
Why am I ignorant of the same 
That J may rest ; and neither blame 
Nor sorrow may attend thy name ? 

II. 
Seven years, alas ! to have received 
No tidings of an only child ; 
To have despaired, have hoped, believed, 
And been for evermore beguiled ; 
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss I 
I catch at them, and then I miss ; 
Was ever darkness like to this? 



He was anion » the prime in worth. 
An object beauteous to behold ; 
Well born, well bred ; I sent him forth 
Ingenuous, innocent, and bold : 
If tilings ensued that wanted grace, 
As hath been said, they were not base ; 
And never blush was on my face. 



Ah ! little doth the young-one dream. 
When fuK of play and childish cares, 
What power is in his wildest scream, 
Heard by his mother unawares ! 
He knows it not, he cannot guess : 
Years to a mother bring distress ; 
But do not make her love the less. 



Neglect me ! no, I suffered long 
From that ill thought ; and, being blind. 
Said, " Pride shall help me in my wrong, 
Kind mother have I been, as kind 
As ev^r breathed : " and that is true ; 



I've wet my path with tears like dew, 
Weeping for him when no one knew. 



My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, 
Hopeless of honor and of gain. 
Oh ! do not dread thy motlier's door ; 
Think not of me with grief and pain : 
I now can sec with better eyes 
And worldly grandeur 1 despise. 
And fortune with her gifts and lies. 

VII. 

,\ las ! the fowls of heaven have wings, 
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight 
They mount — how short a voyage brings 
The wanderers back to their delight I 
Chains tie us dowii»by land and sea ; 
And wishes, vain as mine, may be 
All that IS left to comfort thee. 



Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, 
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men ; 
Or thou upon a desert thrown 
Inheritest the lion's den ; 
Or hast been summoned to the deep. 
Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep 
An incommunicable sleep. 

IX. 

I look for ghosts ; but none will force 
Their way to me : 'tis falsely said 
That there was ever intercourse 
Between the living and the dead ; 
For, surely, then I should have sight 
Of him I wait for day and night, 
With love and longings infinite. 



My apprehensions come in crowds ; 
I dread the rustling of the grass ; 
The very shadows of the clouds 
Have power to shake me as they pass' 
1 question things and do not find 
One that will answer to my mind ; 
And all the world appears unkind. 



Bei'ond participation lie 
My trouljles, and beyond relief : 
If any chance to heave a sigh. 
They pity me, and not my grief. 
'I'hen come to me, my Son. or send 
Some tidings, that my woes may end 7 
I have no other earthly friend 1 
1804. 



IT2 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTfOXS 



XXV. 

THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT. 

BV MY SISTER. 

The days are cold, the nights are long, 
Tlie north-wind sings a doleful song ; 
Then hush again upon my breast; 
All merry things are now at rest, 
Save thee, my pretty Love ! 

The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, 
The crickets long have ceased their mirth ; 
There's nothing stirring in the house 
Save one wee, lumgry, nibbling mouse, 
Then why so busy thou ? 

Nay ! start not at that sparkling light ; 
'Tis but the moon that siiincs so bright 
On the window pane bedropped with rain : 
Then, little Darling ! sleep again, 
And wake when it is day. 
1805. 



MATERNAL GRIEF. 

Departed Child ! I could forget thee once 
Though at my bosom nursed ; this woeful 

gain 
Thy dissolution brings, that in my soul 
Is present and perpetually abides 
A shadow, never, never to be displaced 
By the returning substance, seen or touched, 
Seen by mine eyes, or clasped in my em- 
brace. 
Absence and death how differ they ! and 

how 
Shall I admit that nothing can restore 
What one short sigh so easily removed ? — 
Death, life, and sleep, reality and thought 
Assist me, God, their boundaries to know, 
O teach me calm submission to thy Will I 

The Child she mourned had overstepped 

the pale 
Of Infancy, but still did breathe the air 
That sanctifies its confines, and partook 
Reflected beams of that celestial light 
To all the Litde-oncs on sinful eartli 
Not unvouchsafed — a light that warmed and 

cheered 
Those several qualities of heart and mind 
Which, in her own 1 1 st nature, rooted 

deep, 
Daily before the Mother's watchful eye, 



And not hers only, their peculiar charms 
Unfolded, — beauty, for its present self, 
And foi- its promises to future years. 
With not unfrequent rapture fondly hailed 

Have you espied upon a dewy lawn 
A pair of Leverets each provoking each 
To a continuance of their fearless sport. 
Two separate Creatures :n their several gifts 
Abountling, but so fasliioned that, in all 
That Nature prompts them to display, their 

locks. 
Their starts of motion and their fits of rest, 
An undistinguishable style appears 
And character of gladness, as if Spring 
Lodged in their innocent bosoms, and the 

spirit 
Of the rejoicing morning weu their own? 

Such union, in the lovely Girl maintained 
And her twm lii other, had the parent seen 
Ere, pouncing like a ravenous bird of prey, 
Death in a moment parted them, and left 
Tiie Mother, in her turns of anguish, worse 
Than desolate ; for oft-times from the sound 
Of the survivor's sweetest voice (dear cliild. 
He knew it not) and from his happiest looks 
Did she extract the food of self-reproach, 
As one that lived ungrateful for the stay 
By Heaven afforded to uphold her maimed 
And tottering spirit. And full oft the Boy, 
Now first acquainted with distress and grief, 
Shrunk from his Mother's presence, si' unned 

with fear 
Her sad approach, and stole away to rind. 
In his known haunts of joy where'er he 
might, 

A more congenial object. Rut, as time 
Softened her pangs and reconciled the child 
To what he saw, he gradually returned, 
Like a scared Bird encouraged to renew 
A broken intercourse ; and, while his eyes 
Were yet with pensive fear and gentle awe 
Turned upon her who bore him, she would 

stoop 
To imprint a kiss that lacked not power to 

spread 
Faint color over both their pallid cheeks. 
And stilled his tremulous lip. Thus they 

were calrned 
And cheered ; and now together breathe 

fresh air 
In open fields ; and when the glare of day 
Is gone, and twilight to the Mother's wish 
Befriends the observance, readily they join 
In walks whose boundary is the lost One's 

grave, 



POEM": FOUNDED OxV THE APFECTTONS. 



"3 



Which he with flowers hath planted, finding 
there 
I Amusement, where the Mother does not 
miss 
Dear consolation, kneeling on the turf 
In prayer, yet blending with that solemn 

rite 
Of pious faith the vanities of grief ; 
' For such, by pitying Angels and by Spirits 
Transferred to regions upon which the 

clouds 
Of our weak nature rest not, must be 
deemed 
j Those willing tears, and unforbidden sighs, 
I And all those tokens of a cherished sorrow, 
Which, soothed \\\\<\ sweetened by the grace 
of Heaven 
I As now it is, sc^cni:- to her own fond heart, 
I Immortal as the love that gave it being. 



THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. 

One morning (raw it was and wet — 

A foggy day in winter time) 

A Woman on the road 1 met, 

Not old, thougii sometiiing past /ler 

])rime : 
Majestic in her person, tall and '-'.laight ; 
And like a Roman matron's was iier mien 
and gait. 

The ancient spirit is not dead ; 

Old times, thougiit l,arc breathing there; 

Proud was ! tliat my country bred 

Such strength, a dignity st) fair : 

She begged an alms, like one in jioor es 

tate; 
I looked at her again, nor did my icicle 

abate. 

When from these lofty thoughts I woke, 
" What is it," said 1, "that you bear. 
Beneath the covert of your Cloak, 
Protected from this colJ damp air ?" 
She answered, soon as she tiie question 
heard, 
*A simple burthen. Sir, a little Singing- 
bird. 

And, thus continuing, she said, 
" I had a Son, who many a day 
Sailed on the seas, but he is dead : 
Jn Denmark he was cast away r 
And I have travelled weary miles to see 
If auvht which he had owned might still re- 
main for me. 



The bird and cage they both were his : 
'Twas my Son's bird ; and neat and trim 
He kept it . many voyages 
The singing-bird had gone with him ; 
When last he sailed, he left the bird be- 

hind, 
From bodings, as might be, that hung up(..i 

his mind. 

He to a fellow-lodger's care 
Had left it, to be watched and fed. 
And pipe its song in safety ; — tlnrre 
1 found it wiien my ^on was dead ; 
And now, God hcli) me for my little wit 1 
I bear it with me, Sir;— lie took so much 
delig> . in it." 
iSoo. 



XXVIII. 

■* HE CHILDLESS FATHER. 

" \J .', Timothy, up with your staff and 

away ! 
".ot a soul in thit vill.-ge this morning will 

stay ; 
The hare has just started from Hamilton's 

grounds, 
And Skiddaw is glad witli the cry of the 

hounds.'' 

— Of coats and of jackets gray, scarlet, and 

green. 
On the slopes of thepastui.-s all colors were 

seen , 
With their comely blue aprons, and caps 

white as snow, 
The girls on the hills made a holiday show. 

Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six 

months before, 
Filled the funeral basin * at Timothy's 

door ; 
A coffin through Timothy's threshold had 

past ; 
One Chilal did it bear, and that Child was 

his last. 

Now fast up the dell came the noise and the 

fray, 
'I he horse and the horn, and the hark ! hark 

away ! 



* In several parts of ihc Nvntii of Ei.;;i.inti, 
when a funeral takes place, a basin full of s]irii;s 
if box-wood is placed at tiie door of the house 
fioiu whicli the coffin is taken up, and each 
I c- ISO 11 wlio attends tlic funeral ordinarily taki's 
a sori;:; of this box-wood, and ilnows it iiito the 
;;iavc of tlie deceased. 



tu 



poem:^ pounded on 771 e appkc rioN^. 



Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut 
With a leisurely motion the door of his hut. 

Perhaps to himself at that moment he said ; 
'• Tlie key 1 must take, for my Ellen is 

dead." 
But of this in my ears not a word did he 

speak ; 
And he went to' the chase with a tear on his 

cheek. 
i8oo. 



XXIX. 

THE EMIGRANT MOTHER. 

Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned 

In which a Lady driven from I<>ance did 

dwell ; 
The biti and lesser griefs with wliich she 

mourned, 
In friendship she to me would often tell. 

This Lady, dwelling upon British ground, 
Where she was childless, daily would repair 
To a poor neighboring cottage ; as I found. 
For sake of a young Child whose home was 
there. 

Once having seen her clasp with fond em- 
brace 

This Child, I chanted to myself a lay, 

Endeavoring, in our English tongue, to 
trace 

Such things as she unto the Babe might 
say : 

And thus, from what I heard and knew, or 
guessed, 

My song the workings of her heart ex- 
pressed. 



" Dear Babe, thou daughter of another, 

One moment let me be thy mother ! 

An infant's face and looks are thine, 

And sure a mother's heart is mine : 

Thy own dear mother's far away» 

Al labor in tlie harvest field : 

Thy little sister is at play ; — 

What warmth, what comfort would it 

yield 
To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be 
Dne little hour a child to me ! 

II. 

Across the waters I am come, 
And 1 have left a babe at homo: 



A long, long way of land and sea ! 
Come to me — I'm no enemy : 
1 am the same who at thy side 
Sate yesterday, and made a nest 
For thee, sweet Baby !— thou hast tried, 
Thou know'st the pillow of my breast ; 
Good, good art tiiou ; — alas 1 to me 
Far more than I can be to thee. 



Here, little Darling, dost thou lie ; 

An infant thou, a mother I I 

Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears ; 

Mine art thou — spite of these my tears. 

Alas ! before I left the spot, 

My baby, and its dwelling-place, 

'J1ie nurse said to me, ' Tears should nrtt 

Be shed upon an infant's face, 

It v.'as unlucky '- — no, no, no ; 

No truth is in them who say so ! 



My own dear Little-one will sigh, 
Sweet Babe ! and they will let him die. 
' Lie pines,' they'll say, ' it is his doom 
And you may sec his hour is come.' 
C>h ! had he but thy cheerful smiles, 
Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay, 
Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles. 
And counti'iiance like a summer's day, 
They would have hopes of him ; — and 

then 
I should behold his face atrain ! 



'Tis gone — like dreams that we forget • 

There was a smile or two — yet — yet 

I can remember them, I see 

The smiles worth all the world to me. 

Dear Baby! I must lay thee down ; 

Tiiou troublest me with strange alarms ; 

Smiles hast thou, bright ones of thy own ; 

I cannot keep thee in my arms ; 

For they confound me; — where — where is 

That last, that sweetest smile of his ? 

VI. 

Oh ! how I love thee ! — we will stay 
Together here tliis one half day. 
My sister's child, who bears my name, 
l'"rom France to slieltering England 

came ; 
She witii her mother crossed the sea ; 
The babe and mother near me dwell : 
Yet does my yearning heart to thee 
Turn rather, though I love her well : 
Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here' 
Never was any child more dear I 



POEMS FOUNDED OM TFfE AFFECTIONS. 



»iS 



—I cannot help il ; ill intent 
I've none, my pretty Innocent ! 
I weep — 1 know they do thee wrong, 
These tears — and my poor idle tongue. 
Oh, what a kiss was that ! my cheek 
How cold it is ! but thou art good ; 
Tlune eyes are on me — tiiey would speak, 
1 think, to help me if they could. 
Blessings upon that soft, warm lace, 
My heart again is in its place ! 



While thou art mine, my little Love, 
This cannot be a sorrowfid grove , 
Contentment, hope, and mother's glee, 
I seem to find them all in thee . 
Here's grass to play with, here are 

flowers , 
I'll call thee by my darling's name ; 
Thou hast, I think, a look of ours. 
Thy features seem to me the same j 
His little sister tliou shall be ; 
And, when once more my home 1 see, 
I'll tell him many tales of Thee.*' 
i8o2. 



VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA. 

The following tale was written as an Episode, 
in a woik from which its length may jier- 
haps exclude it. The facts are true ; no ni- 
vention as to these has been exercised, as 
none was needed. 

O HAPPY time of youthful lovers (thus 
My story may begin) O balmy time, 
In which a love-knot on a lady's brow 
Is fairer than the fairest star in heaven ' 
To such inheritance of blessed fancy 
(Fancy that sports more desperately with 

minds 
That ever fortune hath been known to do) 
The high-born Vaudracour was brought, by 

years 
Whose progress had a little overstepped 
His stripling prime. A town of small 

repute, 
Among the vine-clad mountains of Auvergne, 
Was the Youth's birth-place. There he 

wooed a Maid 
Who heard the heart-felt music of his suit 
With answering vows. Plebeian was the 

Stock, 



Plebeian, thoiigh ingenuous, the stock. 
From which her graces and her honours 

sprung : 
And hence the father of the enamoi.rea 

Youth, 
With haughty indignation, spurned the 

thought 
Of such alliance. — From their cradles np. 
With but a step between their several 

homes, 
Twins had they been in pleasure ; after strife 
And petty c)uarrels, had grown fond again; 
Each other's advocate, eacii other's stav; 
And, in their happiest moments, not con- 
tent 
If more divided than a sportive pair 
Of sea-fowl, conscious both that they are 

hovering 
Within the eddy of a common blast, 
Or hidden only by the concave depth 
Of neighbouring billows from each other's 

sight. 

Thus, not without concurrence of an age 
Unknown to memory, was an earnest given 
By ready nature for a life of love, 
For endless constancy, and placid truth 
But vvluitsoe'er of such rare treasure lay 
Reserved, had fate permitted, for support 
Of their maturer years, hi-^ present mind 
Was under fascination ; — he beheld 
A vision, and adored the thing he saw. 
Arabian fiction never filled the world 
With half the wonders that were wrought 

for him. 
Earth breathed in one great presence of the 

spring; 
Life turned the meanest of her implements 
Before his eyes, to price above all gold ; 
The house she dwelt in was a sainted shrine ; 
Her chamber-window did surpass in glory 
The portals of the dawn ; all jjaradise 
Could, by the simple opening of a door, 
I^et itself in upon him : — pathways, walks, 
Swarmed with enchantment, till his spirit 

sank, 
.Surcharged, within him, overblest to move 
Beneath a sun that wakes a weary world 
To its dull round of ordinary cares ; 
A man too happy for mortality I 

So passed the time, till whether througn 

effect 
Of some unguarded moment that dissolved 
Virtuous restraint— ail, speak it, think it, 

notl 



ii6 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



Dacm rather that the fervent Youth, who 

saw 
So many bars between his present state 
And the dear haven where he wished to be 
In lionorable wedlock with his Love, 
Was in liis jud2;nient tempted to dcchne 
To perilous weakness, and entrust his cause 
'Jo nature for a happy end of all ; 
Peem that by such fond hope the Youth 

was swayed, 
And bear with their transgression, when 1 

add 
That Julia, wanting; yet the name of wife, 
Carried about her for a secret grief 
The promise of a mother. 

To conceal 
The threatened shame, the parents of the 

Maid 
Found means to hurry her away by ni^lit, 
And unforewarncd, that in some distant 

spot 
She nnj^ht remain shrouded in privacy, 
Until the babe was born. When morning 

came. 
The Lover, thus bereft, stung with his loss, 
And all uncertam whither he should turn, 
Chafed like a wild beast in the toils ; but 

soon 
Discovering traces of the fugitives, 
Their steps he followed to the Maid's re- 
treat. 
Easily may the sequel be divined — 
Walks to and fro — watch ings at every hour ; 
And the fair Captive, who, whene'er she 

may. 
Is busy at her casement as the swallow 
Fluttering its jiinions, almost within reach, 
About the pendent nest, did thus espy 
Her Lover !— thence a stolen interview. 
Accomplished under friendly shade of night. 

I pass the raptures of the pair ; — such 

theme 
Is, by innumeiable poets, touched 
In more delightful verse than skill of mine 
Could fashion ; chiefly by that darling bard 
Wiio told of Julietandher Romeo, 
And of the lark's note htard before its time. 
And of the streaks that laced the severing 

clouds 
In the unrelenting east.— Through all her 

courts 
The vacant city slept ; the busy winds, 
'J'hat keep no certain intervals of rest. 
Moved not; meanwhile the galaxy displayed 
Her tires, ..hat like mysterious pulses beat 
Aloft; — momentous but uneasy bliss ! 



To their full hearts the universe seemed 

hung 
On that brief meeting's slender filament .' 

They parted ; and the generous Vaudra- 
cour 
Reached speedily the native threshold, bent 
On making (so the Lovers had agreed) 
A sacrifice of birthright to attain 
A linal portion from his father's hand ; 
Which granted. Bride and Bridegroom then 

would Hee 
To some remote and solitary place. 
Shady as night, and beautiful as heaven, 
Where they may live, with no one to be- 
hold 
Their happinevs, or to disturb their love. 
But ncnv of this no whisper ; not the less. 
If ever an obtrusive word were dropped 
'touching the matter of his passion, still, 
In his stern father's hearing, Vaudracou'- 
Persisted openly that death alone 
Should abrogate his human privilege 
Divine, of swearing everlasting truth, 
Upon the altar, to the Maid he loved. 

" You shall be baflied in your mad intents 
If there be justice in the court of France," 
Muttered the Father. — From these wt)rds 

the Youth 
Conceived a terror ; and, by night or day, 
Stirred nowhere without weapons, that lull 

soon 
Found dreadful provocation ; for at night 
When to his chamber he retired, attempt 
Was made to seize him by three armed men, 
Acting, in furtherance of the fatlier's will, 
Under a private signet of the State. 
One the rash Youtli's ungovernable hand 
Slew, and as quickly to a second gave 
A perilous wound—he shuddered to behold 
The breathless corse ; then j^'acehilly re- 
signed 
His person to the law, was lodged in prison, 
And wore the fetters of a criminal. 

Have you observed a tufi of winged seed 
That, from the dandelion's naked stalk, 
Mounted aloft, is suffered not to use 
Its natural gifts for purposes of rest, 
Driven by the autumnal whirlwind to and fro 
Through the wide clement.'' or have you 

marked 
The heavier substance of a leaf-clad bough. 
Within the vo'-ti.x of a foaming flood. 
Tormented .'' by sucli aid you may conceive 
The perturbation tiiat ensued . — ah, no I 



POEMS FOU^fDED ON THE AFFECTTONS. 



11^ 



Despcate the Mail — tlie Youth is stained 

with blood ; 
Uiimatchablc on earth is tlieir disquiet! 
■^'et. as the troubled seed and tortured bough 
Is Man, subjected to despotic sway. 

For him, by private influence with the 

'/ Court, 

fVas pardon gained, and liberty procured; 

Fiiit not without exaction of a pledge. 

Which liberty and love dispersed in air. 

He flew to her from whom they would di- 
vide him — 

He clove to her who could not give him 
peace — 

Vea, his first word of greeting was, — " All 
right 

Is gone from me ; my latcly-towcring hoj^es. 

To the least fibre of tlieir jowest root. 

Are witiiered ; thou no longer canst he 
mine, 

I thine — the conscience-stricken nuist not 
woo 

The unruffled Innocent, — I see thy face. 

Behold thee, and my misery is complete ! " 

" One, are we not ? " exclaimed the Maiden 

— ■' One, 
Ror innocence and youth, for weal and 

woe ? " 
Then with the father's name she coupled 

words 
Of vehement indignation ; but the Youth 
Checked her with filial meekness; for no 

thought 
Uncharitable crossed his mind, no sense 
Of hasty anger, rising in the eclipse 
Of true domestic loyalty, did e'er 
Find place within his bosom,— Once again 
The persevering wedge of tyranny 
Achieved their separation : and once more 
Were they united, — to be yet again 
Disparted, pitiable lot ! But here 
A portion of the tale may well be left 
In silence, though my memory could add 
Much how the Youth, in scanty space of 

time, 
Was traversed from without ; much, too, of 

thoughts 
That occupied his days in solitude 
Under privation and restraint ; and what, 
Through dark and shapeless fear of things 

to come. 
And what, through strong compunction for 

the past, 
He suffered — breaking down in heart and 

mind I 



Doomed to a third and last caj tivity, 
His freedonj he recovered on the eve 
Of Julia's travail. When the bale w,ia 

born, 
Its presence tempted him tochwishschi^mes 
Of future happiness. " You shall return, 
Julia," said he. " and to your fatlier's hciuse 
(u)witli the ciuld. — Vou have been wrcith- 

ed; yet 
The silver shower, whose reckless burthen 

weighs 
Too heavily upon th • lily's head, 
Oft leaves a saving moisture at its root. 
Malice, beholding you, will melt away, 
tio ! -'tis a town where both of us were 

Ixirn ; 
None will reproach j-ou, for our truth is 

known ; | l.it • 

And if, amid those once-bright bowers, our 
Remain unpitied, pity is not in man. 
With ornaments —the prettiest, nature yields 
Or art can fasliion, shall you deck our boy. 
And feed his countenance wit'i your own 

sweet looks 
Till no one can resist him — Now, even 

now, 
I see Iiim sporting on the sunny la.vn ; 
My father from the window sees him too ; 
Startled, as if some new-created thing 
Enriched the earth, or Faery of the woods 
Bounded before him ; — but the unwceting 

Child 
Shall by his beauty win his grandsire's 

heart 
So that it shall be softened, and our loves 
End happily, as they began ! " 

These gleams 
.-\ppeared but seldom ; oftener was he seen 
Propping a pale and melancholy face 
Upon the Mother's bosom ; resting thus 
His head upon one breast, while from the 

other 
The Babe was drawing in its quiet food. 
— That pillow is no longer to be thine, 
Fond Youth 1 that mournful solace now 

must jiass 
Into the list of things that cannot be * 
Unwedded Julia, terror-smitten, hears 
The sentence, by her mother's lips pro 

nounced. 
That dooms her to a convent. — Who shali 

tell, . 
Who dares report, the tidings to the lord 
Of her affections? so they blindly asked 
Who knew not to what quiet depths a 

weight 



ii8 



POEMS FOUNDED O.V THE AFFECTIONS. 



Of agony liad pressed the Sufferer down : 
The word, by others dreaded, he can hear 
Composed and silent, without visible sign 
Of even the least emotion. Noting this, 

When the impatient object of his love 
Upbraided him with slackness, he returned 
No answer, only took the mother's hand 
And kissed it ; seemingly devoid of pain. 
Or care, that what so tenderly he pressed 
Was a dependent on the obdurate heart 
Of one who came to disunite their lives 
Forever- sad alternative ! preferred. 
By the unbending Parents of the Maid, 
To secret 'spousals meanly disavowed. 
—So te it ! 

In the city he remained 
A season after Julia had withdrawn 
To those religious walls. He, too, de- 
parts — 
Who with him ? — even the senseless Little- 
one. 
With that sole charge he passed the city- 
gates, 
For the last time, attendant by the side 
Of a close chair, a litter, or sedan, 
In which the Babe was carried. To a hill, 
That rose a brief league distant from uio 

town. 
The dwellers in that house where he had 

lodged 
Accompanied his steps, by anxious love 
Impelled ; — they parted from him there, and 

stood 
Watching below till he had disappeared 
On the hill top. His eyes he scarcely took. 
Throughout that journey, from the vehicle 
(Slow-movir.g ark of all his hopes!) that 

•eiled 
Th. tender infant : and at every inn, 
An^ under every hospitable tree 
At which the bearers halted or reposed, 
Faid him with timid care upon his knees. 
And looked, as mothers ne'er were known 

to look, 
Upon the nursling which his arms em- 
braced. 

This was the manner in which Vaudra- 

cour 
Departed with his infant ; and thus reached 
His father's house, where to the innocent 

child 
Admittance was denied. The young man 

spake 
No word of indignation or reproof, 



Rut of his father begged, a last request, 
That a retreat might be assigned to him 
Where in forgotten quiet he might dwell, 
With such allowance as his wants required ; 
l'"or wishes he had none. To a lodge that 

stood 
Deep in a forest, with leave given, at the 

age 
Of four-and-twenty summers he virithdrew; 
And thither took with him his motherless 

Babe, 
And one domestic for their common needs, 
An aged woman. It consoled him here 
'I'o attend upon the orphan, and perform 
Obsequious service to the precious child. 
Which, after a short time, by some mistake 
Or indiscretion of the Father, died. — 
The Tale I follow to its last recess 
Of suffering or of peace, 1 know not which : 
Theirs be the blame who caused the woe, 

not mine ! 

From this time forth he never shared a 

smile 
With mortal creature. An Inhabitant 
Of that same town, in which the pair had 

left 
So lively a remembrance of their griefs. 
By chance of business, coming within re^ch 
Of his retirement, to the fo.'-est lodge 
Repaired, but only found the matron there, 
Who told him that his pains were thrown 

away, 
For that her Master never uttered word 
j To living thing— not even to her. — Behold ! 
While they were speaking, Vaudracour ap- 
I proached ; 

i But, seeing some one near, as on the latch 
Of the garden-gate his hand was laid, he 

shrunk — 
And, like a shadow, glided out of view. 
Shocked at his savage aspect, from the 

place 
The visitor retired. 

Thus lived the Youth 
Cut off from all intelligence with man, 
I And shunning even the light of common 
I day ; 

Nor could the voice of Freedom, which 

through France 
Full speedily resounded, public hope, 
Or personal memory of his own deep 

wrongs, 
Rouse him : but in those solitary shades 
His days he wasted, an imbecile mind I 
1805. 



l! 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



119 



THE IDIOT BOY. 

'Tis eight o'clock, — a clear March niglit, 
The moon is up, — the sky is blue, 
The owlet, in the moonlight air, 
Shouts from nobody knows where; 
He lengthens out his lonely shout, 
Halloo ! halloo ! a long halloo ! 

— Why bustle thus about your door, 
What means this bustle, Betty Foy ? 
Why are you in this mighty tret ? 
And why on horseback have you set 
Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy? 

Scarcely a soul is out oi bed ; 
Good Betty, put him down again ; 
His lips with joy they burr at you ; 
But, Betty ! wliat has he to do 
With stirrup, saddle, or with rein ? 

But Betty's bent on her intent ; 
For her good neighbor, Susan Gale, 
Old Susan, she vvho dwells alone. 
Is sick, and makes a piteous moan, 
As if her very life would fail. 

There's not a house within a mile, 
No hand to help them in distress ; 
Old Susan lies a-bed in pain, 
And sorely puzzled are the twain, ' 
For what she ails they cannot guess. 

And Betty's husband's at the wood. 
Where by the week he doth abide, 
A woodman in the distant vale ; 
There's none to help poor Susan Gale; 
What must be done ? what will betide ? 

And Betty from the lane has fetched 
Her Pony, that it. mild and good ; 
Whether hr be in joy or pain, 
Feeding at will along the lane, 
Or bringing faggots from the wood. 

And he is all in travelling trim, — 
And by the moonlight, Betty Foy 
Has on the well-girt saddle set, 
(The like was never heard of yet) 
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. 

And he must post without delay 
Across the bridge and through the dale. 
And by the church, and o'er the down. 
To bring a Doctor from tlie town, 
Or she will die, old Susan Gale. 

There is no need of boot or spur, 
There is no need of whi]> cir wand ; 
For Johnny has his holly bough, 



And with a hurly-burly now 

He shakes the green bough in his hand. 

And Betty o'er and o'er has told 
The Boy, who is her best delight, 
Both what to follow, what to shun, 
What to do, and what to leave undone, 
How turn to left, and how to right. 

And Betty's most especial charge. 
Was, " Johnny I Johnny ! mind that yoa 
Come home again, nor stop at all,— 
Come home a^am, wiiate'er befal, 
My Johnny, do, I pray jou do." 

To this did Johnny answer make, 
Both with his head and with his liand, 
And proudly shook the bridle loo , 
And then ' his words were not a few, 
Which Betty well could understand. 

And now that Johnny is just going, 
Though Betty's in a mighty flurry, 
She gently pats the Pony's side, 
On which her Idiot Boy must ride. 
And seems no longer in a hurry 

But when the Pony moved his legs, 
Oh ! then for the poor Idiot Boy ! 
For joy he cannot hold the bridle. 
For joy his head and heels are idle, 
He's idle all for very joy. 

And while the Pony moves his legs, 
In Johnny's left hand you may see 
The green bough motionless and dead • 
The Moon that shines above his head 
Is not more still and mute than lie 

His heart it was so lull ol glee, 
1 hat till full fifty yards were gone, 
He quite forgot»his holly whip. 
And all his skill in horsemanship : 
Oh ! happy, happy, happy John. 
And while the Mother, at the door 
Stands fixed, her face with joy o'erfiows, 
Proud of herself, and proud of liim, 
She sees him in his travelling trim, 
How quietly her Johnny goes. 
The silence of her Idiot Boy, 
What hopes it sends to Betty's heart ! 
He's at the guide-post — he turns right , 
She watches till he's out of sight, 
And Betty will not then depart. 
Burr, burr— now Johnny's lips they bun 
As loud as any mill, or near it : 
Meek as a Iamb the Pony moves, 
And Johnny makes the noise he lovt>6, 
And Betty listens, glad to liear t. 



120 



^OE^TS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



Awav she hies to Susan Gale : 
Her M-Ssenger's in merry tune; 
The owlets hoot, the owlets curr, 
And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr, 
As on he goes beneath the moon. 

His steed and he right well agree; 
For of this Pony there's a rumor, 
That, should he lose his eyes and ears, 
And should he live a thousand years, 
He never will be out of humor. 

But then he is a horse that thiriks ! 
And when he thinks, his pace is slack ; 
Now, though he knows poor Johnny well, 
Yet, for his life, he cannot tell 
What he has got upon his back. 

So through the moonlight lanes they go, 
And far into the moonlight dale, 
And by the church, and o'er the down, 
To bring a Doctor from the town. 
To comfort poor old Susan Gale. 

And Betty, now at Susan's side. 
Is in the middle ot her story. 
What speedy help her Boy will bring, 
With many a most diverting thing. 
Of Johnny's wit, and Johnny's glory. 

And Betty, still at Susan's side. 
By this time is not quite so flurried 
Demure with porringer and plate 
Siie sits, as if in Susan's fate 
Her life and soul were buried. 

But Betty, poor good Woman ! she. 
You plainly in her face may read it. 
Could lend out of that moment's store 
Five years of happiness or mor 
To any that might need it. 

But yet I guess that now and then 
With Betty all was not so well ; 
And to the road she turns her ears. 
And thence full many a sound she hears, 
Wiiich she to Susan will not tell. 

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans , 
" As sure as there's a moon in heaven," 
Cries Betty, *• he'll be back again ; 
They'll both be here — 'tis almost ten — 
Both will be here before eleven." 

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans ; 
The clock gives warning for eleven ; 
'Tis on the stroke — " He must be near," 
Quoth Betty, " and will soon be iiere, 
And sure as tliere's a moon in heaven." 



The clock is on the stroke of twelve, 

And Johnny is not yet in sight : 

— The Moon's in heaven, as Betty sees, 

But Betty is not quite at ease ; 

And Susan has a dreadful night. 

And Betty, half an hour ago. 
On Johnny vile reflections cast : 
" A little idle sauntering Thing ! " 
With other names, an endless string; 
But now that time is gone anJ past. 

And Betty's drooping at the heart. 
That happy time all past and gone, 
" How can it be he is so late ? 
The Doctor, he has made him wait ; 
Susan ! they'll both be here anon." 

And Susan's growing worse and worse, 
And Betty's in a sad quandary , 
And then there's nobody to say 
If she must go, or she must stay ! 
— She's in a sad quandary. 

The clock is on the stroke of one ; 
But neither Doctor nor his Guide 
Appears along the moonlight road ; 
There's neither horse nor man abroad, 
And Betty still at Susan's side. 

And Susan now begins to fear 

Of sad mischances not a few, 

That Johnny may perhaps be drowned ; 

Or lost, perhaps, and never found ; 

Which they must both forever rue. 

She prefaced half a hint of this 
With, " God forbid it should be true! " 
At the first word that Susan said 
Cried Betty, rising from the bed, 
" Susan, I'd gladly stay with you 

I must be gone, I must away : 
Consider, johnny's but half-wise ; 
Susan, we must take care of him. 
If he is hurt in life or limb " — 
*' Oh God forbid ! " poor Susan cries. 

" What can I do ? " says Betty, going, 
" What can I do to ease your pain ? 
(iood Susan, tell me, and I'll stay; 
I fear you're in a dreadful way. 
But I shall soon be back again." 

" Nay, Betty; go ! good I>etty, go \ 
There's nothing that can ease my pain,'* 
Then off slie hies ; but with a prayer 
That ( "lod poor Susan's life would spar^ 
Till sl>c comes back agaiUj 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTrONS. 



121 



So, through the moonlight lane she goes, 
And far into the moonlight dale ; 
And how she ran, and how siie walked, 
And all that to herself she talked, 
Would surely be a tedious talc. 

In high and low, above, below, 
In great and small, in round and square, 
In tree and tower was Johnny seen, 
In bush and brake, in black and green ; 
' Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where. 

And while she crossed the bridge, there 

came 
A thought with which her heart is sore — 
Johnny perhaps his horse forsook, 
To hunt the moon within the brook, 
And never will be heard of more. 

Now is she high upon the down, 
Alone amid a prospect wide ; 
There's neither Johnny nor his Horse 
Among the fern or in the gorse ; 
There's neither Doctor nor his Guide. 

" Oh saints ! what is become of him ? 
Perhaps he's climbed into an oak, 
Where he will stay till he is dead ; 
Or, sadly he has been misled. 
And joined the wandering gipsy-folk. 

Or him that wicked Pony's carried 
To the dark cave, the goblin's hall, 
Or in the castle he's pursuing 
Among the ghosts his own undoing ; 
Or playing with the waterfall." 

At poor old Susan then she railed, 
While to the town she posts away; 
" If Susan had not been so ill, 
Alas! I should have had him still, 
My Johnny, till my dying day." 

Poor Betty, in this sad distemper, 
The Doctor's self could hardly spare •. 
Unworthy things she talked, and wild ; 
Even he, of cattle the most mild, 
The Pony had his share. 

But now she's fairly in the town, 
And to the Doctor's door she hies ; 
'Tis silence all on every side ; 
The town so long, the town so wide, 
is silent as the skies. 

And now she's at the Doctor's door, 
She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap; 
The Doctor at the casement shows 
' His glimmering eyes that peep and dose ; 
And one hand rubs his old ni^ht-cap. 



" Oh Doctor ! Doctor ! where's \wj 

Johnny ? " 
" I'm here, what is't you want with me.''" 
" Oh Sir ! you know I'm Hetty Foy, 
And I have lost my poor dear Boy, 
You know him — him you often see 

He's not so wise as some folks be : " 
" The devil take his wisdom ! " said 
The Doctor, looking somewhat grim, 
" What, Woman 1 should I know of him t * 
And, grumbling, he went back to bed ! 

'* O woe is me ! O woe is me ! 
Here will I die ; here will I die ; 
I thought to find my lost one here, 
But he is neither far nur near, 
Oh ! what a wretched Mother 1 ! ' 

She stops, shf^ stands, she looks about ; 
Which way to turn she cannot tell. 
Poor Betty ! it would ease her jiain 
If she had heart to knock again ; 
— The clock strikes three — a dismal knell 1 

Then up along the town she hies, 

No wonder if her senses fail ; 

This piteous news so much it shocked her 

She quite forgot to send the Doctor 

To comfort poor old Susan Gale. 

And now she's high upon the down, 
And she can see a mile of road : 
" O cruel ! I'm almost threescore ; 
Such night as this was ne'er before, 
There's not a single soul abroad." 

She listens, but she cannot hear 
The foot of horse, the voice of man ; 
The streams with softest sound are flowing, 
The grass you almost hear it growing. 
You hear it now, if e'er you can. 

The owlets through the long blue night 
And shouting to each other still : 
Fond lovers \ yet not quite hob nob 
They lengthen out the tremulous sob, 
That echoes far from hill to hill. 

Poor Betty now has lost all hope, 
Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin, 
A green-grown pond she just has ]\ist. 
And from the brink she hurries fast, 
Lest she should drown herself therein 

And now she sit her down and weeps; 
Such tears she never shed brfore ; 
" Oh dear, dear Pony ! my sweet joy ! 
Oh carry back my Idiot Boy ! 
And we will ne'er o'erload thee more," 



122 



POEMS POUA^DED ON TFTE AFPECTIONS 



A thought is come into lier liead " 
The Pony he is mild and good, 
And we have always used him well ■, 
Perhaps he's gone along the dell, 
And carried Johnny to the wood. 

Then up she springs as if on wings ; 
She thinks no more of deadly sin ; 
If Betty fifty ponds should see, 
The last of all her thoughts would be 
To drown herself therein. 

Reader ! now that I might tell 
What Johnny and liis Horse are doing ! 
What they've been doing all this time, 
Oh could I put it into rhyme, 

A most delightful tale pursuing ! 

Perhaps, and no unlikely thought ! 
He with his Pony now dotli roam- 
The cliffs and peaks so liigh that arc, 
To lay his liands upon a star, 
And in his pocket bring it home. 

Perhaps he's turned himself about, 
His face unto his horse's tail. 
And, still and mute, in wonder lost. 
All silent as a horseman-ghost, 
He travels slowly down the vale. 

And now, perhaps, is hunting sheep, 
A fierce and dreadful hunter he.; 
Yon valley, now so trim and green. 
In five months' time, should lie be seen 
A desert wilderness will be ! 

Perhaps, with head and heels on fire. 
And like the very soul of evil, 
He's galloping away, away, 
And so will gallop on for aj'e, 
The bane of all that dread the devil ! 

1 to the Muses have been bound 
Tliese fourteen years, by strong indentures 
O gentle Muses ! let me tell 

But lialf of what to him befel ; 

He surely met with strange adventures. 

O gentle Muses ! is this kind? 
Why will ye thus my suit repel ? 
Why of your further aid bereave me ? 
A. id can ye thus unfriended leave me ; 
Ye Muses ! whom I love so well ! 

Who's yon, that, near the waterfall. 
Which thunders down with headlong force. 
Beneath the moon, yet shining fair^ 
As careless as if nothing were. 
Sits upright on a feeding horse ? 



Unto his horse — there feeding free, 
He seems, I tliink, the rein to give ; 
Of moon or stars he takes no heed ; 
Of such we in romances read : 
— 'Tis Johnny ! Johnny ! as I live. 

And that's the very Pony, too ! 
Where is she, where is Betty Foy ? 
She hardly can sustain her fears ; 
The roaring waterfall she hears, 
And cannot find lier Idiot Boy. 

Your Tony's worth his weight in gold j 
Then cahn your terrors, Betty Foy ! 
She"s coming from among the trees, 
And now all full in view she sees 
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. 

A id Betty sees the Pony too : 

Wliy stand you thus, good Betty Foy? 

It is no goblin, 'tis no ghost, 

'Tis iie whom you so long have lost. 

He whom you love, your Idiot Boy. 

She looks again — her arms are up — 
She screams — she cannot move for joy 
She darts, as with a torrent's force, 
She almost has o'erturned the Horse, 
And fast she holds her Idiot Boy. 

And Jiihnny burrs, and laughs aloud* 
Whether in cunning or in joy 
I cannot tell ; but while he laughs, 
Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs 
To hear again her Idiot Boy. 

And now she's at the Pony's tail. 
And now is at the Pony's liead, — 
On that side now, and now on this ; 
And, almost stifled with her bliss, 
A few sad tears does Betty shed. 

She kisses o'er and o'er again 
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy; 
She's happy here, is h.nppy there. 
She IS uneasy everywhere ; 
Her limbs are all alive with joy. 

She pats the Pony, wliere or when 
She knows not, happy Betty Foy ! 
The little Pony glad may be, 
But he is milder far than she, 
You hardly can perceive his joy. 

" Oh ! Johnny, never mind the Doctor 
You've done your best, and that is all : 
Slie took the reins, when this was said^ 
And gently turned the Pony's head 
Frpm the loud waterfall. 



POEMS I'OUXDF.n OX THE AFJ'ECTIONS. 



123 



Bv this the stars were ahnost gone, 
'JI1C moon was setting on the hill, 
ii^o pale you scarcely looked al lier : 
The little birds began to stir, 
Though yet their tongues were still. 

The Pony, Betty, and her Hoy, 
vVind slowly through the woody daie ; 
And who is she, betimes abroad, 
'J'hat hobbles up the stccj:! rough road ? 
Wlio is it, but old Susan Gale? 

Long time lay Susan lost in thought 
And many dreadful fears beset her, 
15oth for her Messenger and Nurse : 
And, as her mmd grew worse and worse, 
11 cr body — it grew better. 

She turned, she tossed herself in bed. 
On all sides doubts and terrors met her ; 
Point after point chd she discuss; 
And, while her mind was fighting thus, 
Her body still grew better. 

" Alas ! what is become of Ihem ? 

These fears can never be endured ; 

ril to the wood.''— 'J'he word scaice said, 

Did Susan rise up from her bed, 

As if by magic cured. 

Away she goes up' hill and down, 

And to the wood at length is come ; 

She spie.. her Friends, she shouts a greeting ; 

Oh me ! it is a merry meeting 

As ever was in Christendom. 

Tlic owls have hardly sung their last. 
While our four travellers homeward wend , 
The owls have hooted all night long. 
And with the owls began my song. 
And with the owls must end. 

For while they all were travelling home, 
Cried Betty, " Tell us. Johnny, do, 
Where all this long night you liave been. 
What you have heard, what you have seen : 
And, Johnny, mind you tell us true." 

Now Johnny all night long had heard 
The owls in tuneful concert strive ; 
No doubt too he the moon had seen ; 
For in the moonlight he had been 
From eight o'clock till five. 

And thus, to Betty's question, he 
Made answer, like a traveller bold, 
(His very words 1 give to you,) 
*• The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-\vhoo, 



And the sun did shine so coUl !" 
— Thus answered Johnny in his glory, 
And tliat was all his travel's story. 
179S. 



XXXII. 

MICHAEL. 

A PASTORAL rOEM. 

If from the public way you turn your step 
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head 

Gbyll, 
You will suppose that with an upright path 
Your feet must struggle ; in such bold as- 
cent 
The pastoral mountains front you, face to 

face. 
But, courage! for around that boisterous 

brook 
The mountains have all opened out them 

selves, 
And made a hidden valley of their own. 
No habitation can be seen ; but they 
Who journey thither find themselves alone 
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones., 

and kites 
That overhead are sailing in the sky. 
It is in truth an utter solitude ; 
Nor should 1 have made mention of this 

Dell 
But for one object which you might pass 

by, 

Might see and notice not. Beside the 

brook 
Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones 
And to that simple object appertains 
A story— uncnriched with strange events, 
Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 
Or for the summer shade. It was the fiist 
Of those domestic tales that spake to me 
Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, mtn 
Whom I already loved: — not verily 
For their own sakes, but for the fields and 

hills 
Where was their occupation and abode. 
And hence this Talc, while I was yet a Boy 
Careless of books, yet having felt the power 
Of Nature, by the gentle agency 
Of natural objects, led mc on to feel 
For passions that were not my own, and 

think 
(At random and imperfectly indeed 1 
On man, the h'^art of man, and human life. 
Therefore, although it be a history 
Homely and srude, I ill relate the same 



124 



FOE IMS I'OUA'DRD O.V THE AEFECTrONS 



For the delight of a few natural hearts ; 
And, witli yet fonder feeling, for the sake 
Ot jouthful Poets, who among tliese hills 
Will be my second self when 1 am gone. 

Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale 
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his 

name ; 
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of 

limb. 
His bodily frame had been from youth to 

age 
Of an unusual strength : his mind was keen, 
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs. 
And in liis shepherd's calling he was prompt 
And watchful more than ordinary men. 
Hence had he learned the meaning of all 

winds. 
Of blasts of every tone ; and, oftentimes. 
When others heeded not, he heard the 

South 
Make subterraneous music, like the noise 
Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. 
The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock 
Bethought hiiy, and he to himself would 

say, 
" The winds are now devising work for 

me ! " 
And, truly, at all times, the storm, that 

drives 
The traveller to a shelter, summoned him 
Up to the mountains : he had been alone 
Amid the heart of many thousand mists. 
That came to him, and left him, on the 

heights. 
So lived lie till his eightieth year was past. 
And grossly that man errs, who should sup- 
pose 
That tlie green valleys, and the streams and 

rocks, 
Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's 

thoughts. 
Fielcis, where with cheerful spirits he had 

breathed 
The conimon air ; hills, which with vigorous 

step 
He had so often climbed ; which had im- 
pressed 
So many incidents upon his mind 
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear ; 
Which, like a book, preserved the memory 
Of the dumb animals whom he had saved. 
Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts 
The certainty of honorable gain ; 
Those fields, those hills — what could they 

less ? — had laid 
Strong hold on his affections, were to him 



A pleasurable feeling of blind love, 
The pleasure which there is in life itself, 
liis days had not been passed in single 

ness. 
His Helpmate v/as a comely matron, old — 
Though younger than himself full twenty 

years. 
She was a woman of a stirring life, 
Whose heart was in her house ; two wheels 

she had 
or antique form ; this large, for spinning 

wool ; 
That small, for flax ; and if cnc wheel had 

rest 
It was because the other was at work. 
The Pair had but one inmate in their house, 
An only Child, who liad been born to them 
When Michael, t-iling o'er his years, began 
To deem that he was old,— in shepherd's 

phrase, 
With one foot in the grave. This only Son, 
Whit two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a 

storm. 
The one of an inestimable worth, 
Made all their household. I may truly say 
That they were as a proverb in the vale 
For endless industry. When they was gone, 
And from their occupations out of doors 
The Son and Father were come home, even 

then. 
Their labor did not cease ; unless when all 
Turned to the cleanly supper-board, i'.nd 

there. 
Each witli a mess of pottage and skimmed 

milk, 
Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes, 
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet 

when the meal 
Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was 

named) 
And his old Father both betook themselves 
To such convenient work as might employ 
Their hands by the fire-side ; perhaps to 

card 
Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or re- 
pair 
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, 
Or other iinpi ment of house or field. 

Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's 
edge, 
That in our ancient uncouth country style 
With huge and black projection over- 
browed 
Large space beneath, as duly as "the light 
Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a 
lamp J 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



An aged utensil, which had performed 
Service beyond all others of its kind. 
Early at evening did it burn— and late, 
Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, 
Which, going by from year to year, had 

found, 
And left the couple neither gay perhaps 
Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with 

hopes. 
Living a life of eager industry. 
And now, when Luke had reached his eigh- 
teenth year, 
There by the light of this old lamp they 

sate, 
Father and Son, while far into the night 
The Housewife plied her own peculiar 

work, 
Making the cottage through the silent hours 
Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. 
This light was famous in its neighborhood. 
And was a public symbol of the Hfe 
That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it 

chanced, 
Their cottage on a plot of rising ground 
Stood single, with large jjrospect, north and 

south. 
High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, 
And westward to the village near tlie lake ; 
And from this constant light, so regular 
And so far seen, the House itself, by all 
Who dwelt within the limits of the vale. 
Both old and young, was named The Even- 
ing Star, 

Thus living on through such a length of 
years, 
The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must 

needs 
Huve loved his Helpmate ; but to Michael's 

heart 
This son of his old age was yet more dear — 
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same 
Fond spirit that bhndly works in the blood 

of all— 
Than tliat a child, more than all other gifts 
Tliat earth can offer to declining man, 
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking 

tlioughts. 
And stirrings of inquietude, when they 
l}y tendency of nature needs must fail. 
Exceeding was the love he bare to him, 
His heart and his heart's joy ! For often- 
times 
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms. 
Had done him female service, not alone ♦ 
For pastime and delight, as is the use 
Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced 



To acts of tenderness ; and he had rocked 
His cradle as with a woman's gentle liand. 

And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy 
Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love, 
Albeit of a stern unbending mind, 
To have the Young-one in his sight, when he 
Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's 

stool 
Sate with a fettered sheep before him 

stretched 
Under the large old oak, that near his door 
Stood single, and, from matchless depth of 

shade. 
Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, 
Thence in our rustic dialect was called 
The Clipping Tree,* a name which yet 

it bears. 
There, while they two were sitting in the 

shade, 
With others round them, earnest all and 

blithe. 
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks 
Of fond correction and reproof bestowed 
Upon the Child, if he di-sturbed the sheep 
P>y catching at their legs, or with his shouts 
Scared tliem, while they lay still beneath 

the shears. 

And when by Heaven's good grace the boy 

grew up 
A heahhy Lad, and carried in his cheek 
Two steady roses that were five years old ; 
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 
With his own hand a sapling, which he 

hooped 
With iron, making it throughout in all 
Due requisitiis a perfect shepherd's staff, 
And gave it to tlie Boy ; wherewith equipt 
He as a watchman oftentimes was placed 
At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock ; 
And, to his office prematurely called, 
There stood the urchin as you will divine, 
Something between a hindrance and a help ; 
And for this cause not always, I believe, 
Receiving from his Father hire of praise ; 
Though naught was left undone which staft 

or voice, 
Or looks, or threatening gestures, could 

perform. 
But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could 

stand. 
Against the mountain blasts, and to thf 

heights, 

* ClippitiR is the word \x^cA iai tlie North o 
England for sJiearing. 



126 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, 
He with his Father daily went, and they 
Were as companions, why should I relate 
That objects which the Shepherd loved 

before 
Were dearer now ? that from the Boy there 

came 
Feelings and emanations — things which were 
Light to the sun and music to the wind ; 
And that the old Man's heart seemed born 

again ? 

Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew 
up: 

And now, when he had reached his eigh- 
teenth year, 

He was his comfort and his daily hope. 

While in this sort the simple household 
lived 
From day to day, to Michael's ear there came 
Distressful lidings. Long before the time 
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been 

bound 
In surety for his brother's son, a man 
Of an industrious life, and ample means ; 
But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 
Had prest upon him : and old Micliael now 
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, 
A grievous penalty, but little less 
Than half iiis substance. This unlooked- 
for claim, 
At the first hearing, for a moment took 
More hope out of his life than he supposed 
Tiiat any old man ever could iiave lost. 
As soon as he had armed himself with 

strength 
To look his trouble in the face,it seemed 
Tlie Shepherd's sole resource to sell at 

once 
A portion of*liis patrimonial fields. 
Such was his first resolve ; he thought again, 
And his heart failed him. " Isabel," said he, 
Two evenings after he had heard the news, 
" I have been toiling more than seventy years, 
And in the open sunshine of God's love 
Have we all lived ; yet if these fields of ours 
Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think 
That I could not lie quiet in my grave. 
Our lot is a hard lot ; the san himself 
Has scarcely been more diligent than I ; 
And I have lived to be a fool at last 
To my own family. An evil man 
That was, and made an evil choice, if he 
Were false to us ; and if he were not false. 
There are ten thousand to whom loss lil:o 
this 



Had been no sorrow. I forgive him ; — but 
'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. 

When I began, my purpose was to speak 
Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. 
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel ; the land 
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free ; 
He shall possess it, free as is the wind 
Tliat passes over it We have, thou know'st, 
Another kinsman — he will be our friend 
In this distress. He is a prosperous man. 
Thriving in trade — and Luke.to him shall go, 
And with his kinsman's help and his own 

thrift 
He quickly will repair this loss, and then 
He may return to us. If here lie stay, 
What can be done.? Where every one is 

poor. 
What can be gained .? " 

At this the old Man paused, 
And Isabel sat silent, for her mind 
Was busy, looking back into past times. 
There's Richard Bateman, thought siic to 

herself. 
He was a parish -boy — at the church-door 
They made a gathering for him, shillings, 

pence. 
And half-pennies, wherewith the neighbors 

bought 
A basket, which they filled with^ 

wares ; 
And, with his basket on his arm, the 
Went up to London, found a master 
Who, out of many, cliose the trusty 
To go and overlook his merchandise 
Beyond the seas : where he grew wondrous 

rich, 
And left estates and moneys to the poor. 
And, at his birth-place, built a chapel floored 
Witli marble, which he sent from foreign 

lands. 
These thoughts, and many others of like 

sort. 
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, 
And her face brightened. The old Man 

was glad, 
Antl thus ri-sumed : — " Well, Isabel! this 

scheme. 
These two days, has been meat and drink 

to me. 
Far more than we have lost is left us yet. 
— We have enough — 1 wish indeed that 1 
Were younger ; — but this hope is a good 

hope. 
Make ready Luke's best garments, of the 

bf'st 
Buy for liim more, and let us send him forth 



J 'OEMS FOUNDED ON TTTE AFFECTIONS. 



27 



To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night : 
—11: he could go, the Boy should go to- 
night." 
Here Michael ceased, and to the fields 
went forth 
With a light heart. The Housewife for 

five days 
^as restless morn and night, and all day 

l^ng 
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare 
'J liings needful for the journey of her son. 
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 
'J'o slop her in hrr work : for, when she ^ay 
By Michael's side, she through the last two 

nights 
Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep ; 
And when they rose at morning she could 

see 
That all. his hopes were gone. That day at 

noon 
.^he said to Luke, while they two by them- 
selves 
Were sitting, )t the door, " Thou must not 

go: 
We have no other Chi.^ Mit thee to lose, 
None to remember — do not go away, 
For if thou leave thy Fatlier he will die." 
The Youth made answer with a jocund volk;e ; 
And Isabel, when she had told her fears, 
Ivecovered heart. That evening her best 

fare 
Did she bring forth, and all together sat 
1-ike hap'-'y people round a Christmas fire. 

With daylight Isabel resumed her work : 
And all the ensuing week the house appeared 
As cheerful as a grove in Spring; at length 
The expected letter from their kinsman 

came, 
Witli kind assurances that he would do 
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy; 
To winch, requests were added, that forth- 
with 
He might be sent to him. Ten times or 

more 
riie letter was read over ; Isabel 
Went forth to show it to tlie neighbors round. 
Nor was there at that time on English land 
A prouder heart than Luke's. Wiien Isabel 
Had to her house returned, the old Man said, 
" He shall depart to-morrow." To this 

word 
The Housewife answered, talking much (^f 
things i 

Which, if at such short notice he should iro, | 
Would surely be forgotten. But at lengtli j 
Shtt gave consent, and Michael was at ease. I 



Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head 

Ghyll, 
In that deep valley, Michael had designed 
To build a Sheep-fold ; and, before he iieard 
The tidings of his melancholy loss. 
For this same purpose he had gathered up 
A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's 

edge 
Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 
With Luke that evening thitherward he 

walked : 
And soon as they had reached the place he 

stopped. 
And thus the old Man spake to him :— 

" My Son, 
To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full 

heart 
I look upon thee, for thou art the same 
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth 
And all thy life hast been my daily joy. 
I will relate to thee some little part 
Of our two histories ; 'twill do thee crood 
When thou art from me, even if 1 should 

touch [tiiou 

On things thou canst not know of. After 

First cam'st into the world— as oft befalls 
The new-born infants — thou didst sleep 

away 
Two days, and blessings from thy Father's 

tongue 
Than fell u]wn thee. Day by day passed on, 
And still I loved thee with increasing love. 
Never to living ear cam sweeter sounds 
Than when \ heard thee by our own fire- 
side 
P'irst uttering, without words, a natural tune ; 
While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy 
Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month fol- 
lowed month. 
And in the open fields my life was passed 
And on the mountains ; else 1 think tliat 

thou 
Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's 

knees. 
But we were playmates, Luke : among these 

hills, ■ 
As well thou knowest, in us the old and 

young 
Have played together, nor with me didst 

thou 
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." 
Luke had a manly heart; but at these words 
He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasjied his 

hand, 
And said, " Nay, do not take it so — I see 
That these are things of which I need ko( 

speak. 



i28 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



—Even to the utmost I liave been to thee 
A kind and a good Fatlicr : and lierein 
I but repay a gift which 1 myself 
Received at other's hands ; for, though now 

old 
Beyond the common life of man, I still 
Rjinember tliem vvlio lovetl me in my youth, 
h(jth of them sleep together : here they 

lived, 
As all their Forefathers had done ; and when 
At length their time was come, they were 

not loth 
To give their bodies to the family mould. 
1 wished that thou shouldst live the life they 

lived : 
But, 't'ls a long time to look back, my Son, 
And see so little gain from threescore years. 
These fields were burthened when they came 

to me ; 
Till I was forty years of age, not more 
Than half of my inheritance was mine. 
1 toiled and toiled ; God blessed me in my 

work, 
And till these three weeks past the land was 

free. 
—It looks as if it never could endure 
Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, 
If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good 
That thou should'st go." 

At this the old Man pausedj 
Then, pointing to the stones near which they 

stood, 
Thus, after a short silence, he'rcsumsd : 
" This was a work for us ; and now. my Son, 
It is a work for me. But, lay one stone — 
Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own 

hands. 
Nay, Boy, be of good hope ; — we both may 

live 
To see a better day. At eighty-four 
I still am strong and hale ; — do thou thy 

part; 
I will do mine — I will begin again 
With mnnv tasks that were resigned to thee : 
l']! to the hei'^lits, and in among the storms, 
Will I without thee go again, and do 
All works which I was wont to do alone, 
Before I knew thy face. — Heaven bles.s thoe, 

Boy! 
Thy heart these two weeks has been beating 

fast 
With many hopes ; it should be so — yes — 

yes — 
' knew that thou couldst never have a wish 
T o leave me, Luke : thou hast been bound 

to me 
Only by links of love : when thou art gone, 



What will be left to us !— I'.ut. I forget 
My purposes. Lay now t'.u corner-stone, 
As I requested ; and hereafter, Luke, 
When thou art gone away, should evil men 
Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, 
And of this moment; hither turn thj 

thoughts, ' 
.•\nd God will strengthen thee ; amid all fear 
And all temptations, Luke, I pray that tliou 
May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers 

lived, 
Who, being innocent, did for that cause 
Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee 

well — 
When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt 

see 
A work which is not here : a covenant 
'Twill be between us : but, whatever fate 
Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last. 
And bear thy memory with me lo tht 
grave." 
The Shepherd ended here ; and Lukr 

stooped down, 
And, as iiis Father had requested, laid 
The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the 

sight 
The old Man's grief broke from him ; to his 

heart 
He pressed his Son, he kissed him and 

wept ; 
And to the house together they returned, 
—Hushed was that House in peace, or seem- 
ing peace. 
Ere the night fell:-- with morrow's dawn 

the Boy 
liegan his journey, and when he had reached 
The public way, he put on a bold face ; 
And all the neighbors, as he passed their 

doors. 
Came fortli with wishes and with farewell 

prayers. 
That followed him till he was out of sight. 
A good report did from their Kinsman 

come, 
Of Luke and his well-doing : and the Boy 
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, 
Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were 

throughout 
" Tiie prettiest letters that were ever seen." 
Both parents read them with rejoicing 

liearts. 
So, many months passed on : and once 

again 
The Shepherd went about his daily work 
With confident and cheerful thoughts ; and 

now 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



139 



Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour 
He to that valley took his way, and there 
Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke 

began 
To slacken in his duty ; and, at length, 
He in the dissolute city gave himself 
To evil courses : ignominy and shame 
Fell on him, so that he was driven at last 
To seek a hiding-j^lace beyond the seas. 

There is a comfort in the strength of love ; 
'Twill make a thing endurable, which else 
"Would overset the brain, or break the heart : 
1 have conversed with more than one who 

v/cU 
Remember the old Man, and what he was 
Years after he had heard this heavy news. 
His bodily frame had been . om youth to 

age 
Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks 
He went, and still looked i;p to L^un and 

cloud, 
And listened to the wind ; and, as before, 
Performed all kinds of labor for his sheep. 
And for the land, his small inheritance. 
And to that hollow dell from time to time 
Did he repair, to build the Fold of which 
His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet 
The pity which was then in every heart 
For the old Man — and 'tis believed by all 
That many and many a day he thither went, 
And never lifted up a single stone. 

There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was 

he seen 
Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, 
Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. 
The length of full seven years, from time to 

time. 
He at the building of this Sheep-fold 

wrought. 
And left the work unfinished when he died. 
Three years, or little more, did Isabel 
Survive her Husband: at her death the 

estate 
Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. 
The Cottage which was named the Evening 

Star 
Is gone — the ploughshare has been through 

the ground 
On vv-hicii it stood : great changes have been 

wrought 
In all the neighborhood : — yet the oak is left 
That grew beside their door ; and the remains 
Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen 
Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head 

Ghyll. 



THE WIDOW ON WINDERMERE 

SIDE. 



How beautiful when up a lofty height 
Honor ascends among the humblest pjoor, 
And feeling sinks as deep ! See there the 

door 
Of One, a Widow, left beneath a weight 
Of blameless debt. On evil Fortune's spite 
She wasted no complaint, but strove to 

make 
A just repayment, both for conscience-sake 
And that herself and hers should stand up- 

right 
In the world's eye. Her work when daylight 

failed 
Paused not, and through the depth of night 

she kept 
Such earnest vigils, that belief prevailed 
With some, the noble Creature never slept ; 
Put, one by one, tlie hand of death assailed 
llcr children from her inmost heart bcwcpt. 

II. 
The Mother mourned, nor ceased her tears 

to flow. 
Till a winter's noon-day placed her buried 

Son 
Before her eyes, last Child of many gone — 
His raiment of angelic white, and lo ! 
His very feet briglit as the dazzling snow 
Which they are touching : yea, far brighter, 

even 
As that which comes, or seems to come, from 

heaven, 
Surpasses aught these elements can show. 
Much she rejoiced, trusting that from that 

hour 
Whate'er befell she could not grieve or pine ; 
But the Transfigured, in and out of season. 
Appeared, and spiritual presence gained a 

power 
Over material forms that mastered reason. 
Oh, gracious Heaven, in pity make hei 

thine ! 

III. 
But why that prayer? as if to her could 

come 
No good but by the way that leads to bliss 
Through Death,— so judging we should 

judge amiss. 
Since reason failed want is her threatened 

doom, 
Yet frequent transports mitigate the gloom : 



[30 



POEMS FOU.VDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



Nor of those maniacs is she one that kiss 
The air or laugh upon a precipice ; 
No, passing through strange sufferings to- 
ward tlie tomb 
She smiles as if a martyr's crown was won : 
Oft, when hght breaks through clouds or 

waving trees, 
^Vith outspread arms and fallen upon her 

knees 
riie Mother hails in her descending Son 
An Angel, and in earthly ecstasies 
Her own angelic glorv seems begun. 



XXXIV. 



THE ARMENIAN LADY'S LOVE. 

[The sul^ject of the followinp poem is from tlie 
Orlaiidus of the author's friend, Keiieiin 
Henry Digby: and tlie libcny is taken of in- 
scribing it to him as an acknowledgment, 
Iiowever unworthy, of pleasure and instruc- 
tion derived from liis numerous and valuable 
\vritings,illustrativeof the piety and chivalry 
of tlic olden tune. J 



You have heard " a Spanish Lady 

How she wooed an English man ; "* 
Hear now of a fair Armenian, 
Daughter of the proud Soldan ; 
How she loved a Christian Slave, and told 

her pain 
Dy word,look, deed, with hope that he might 
love again. 

II. 
*' Pluck that rose, it moves my liking," 

Said she, lilting up her veil ; 
" Pluck it for me, gentle gardener, 
Ere it wither and grow pale." 
•' Princess fair, I till the ground, but mny 

not take 
From twig or bed an humbler flower, even 
for your sake ! " 

III. 
" Grieved am 1, submissive Christian ! 

To behold thy captive statt ; 
Women, in your land, may pity 
(May they not?) the unfortunate." 
*Yes, kind Lady ! otherwise man could not 

bear 
Life, which to every one that breathes is full 
of care." 

* See, in Percy's Reliques, that fine old 
ballad, "The Spanish Lady's Love:" from 
which Poem the form of stanza, as suitable to 
dialogue, is adoptedt 



IV. 

" Worse than idle is compassion 

If it end in tears and sighs ; 
Thee from bondage would I rescue 
And from vile indignities ; 
Nurtured, as thy mien bespeaks, in high de 

gree. 
Look up — and help a hand that longs tu sei 
thee free." 



" Lady! dread the wish, nor venture 

In such peril t(j engage ; 
Think how it would stir against you 
Your most loving Father's rage ; 
Sad deliverance would it be, and yoked with 

shame, 
Should troubles overflow on her from whom 
it came." 

VI. 

" nenciTms Frank ! the just in effort 

Are of inward jjcace secure: 
Hardshij^s for the brave encountered, 
Even the feeblest nii^v endure : 
If almighty grace through me thy chains un- 
bind 
My father for slave's work may seek a slave 
in mind." 

VII. 

" Princess, at this burst of goodness. 

My long-frozen heart grows warm!" 
" Yet you make all courage fruitless, 
Me to save from chance of harm : 
Leading such companion, I that gilded 

dome. 
Yon minarets, would gladly leave for his 
worst home." 

VIII. 

" Feeling tunes your voice, fair Princess ! 

And y ur brow is free from scorn. 
Else these words would come like 
mockery, 
Sharper than the pointed thorn." 
" Whence the undeserved mistrust ? Too 

wide apart 
Our faith hath been, — O would that eyes 
could see the heart ! " 

IX. 

'• Tempt me not, I pray ; my doom is 

These base implements to wield ; 
Rusty lance, 1 ne'er shall grasp thee, 
Ne'er assoil my cobwebb'd shield ! 
Never see my native land, nor castle towers, 
Nor Her who thinking of nie there countf 
widowed hours." 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



1 7. 1 



X. 

** Prisoner ! pardon youthful lancics 

Wedded ? If you can, say no ! 
Blessed is and be your consort ; 
Hopes I cherished— L't them go ! 
Handmaid's privilege would leave my pur- 
pose free, 
Without another link to my felicity.^ 

XI. 

'* Wedded love with loyal Christians, 

Lady, is a mystery rare ; 
IJody, heart, and soul in union, 
Make one being of a pair. " 
" Humble love in me would look for no re- 
turn, 
Soft as a guiding star that cheers, but can- 
not burn." 



" Gracious Allah ! by such title 
Do I dare to thank the God, 
Him who thus exalts thy spirit, 
Flower of an imchristian sod ! 
Or hast thou put off wings wluch thou in 

heaven dost wear ? 
What have I seen, and heard, or dreamt ? 
where am 1 ? where ? " 

XIII. 

Here broke off the dangerous converse : 

Less mipassioned words might tell 
How the pair escaped together, 
Tears not wanting, nor a knell 
Of sorrow in her heart while through her 

father's door. 
And from her narrow world, she passed for 
evermore. 

XIV. 

But affections higher, holier, 

Urged her steps ; she shrunk from trust 
In a sensual creed that trampled 
Woman's birthright into dust. 
Little be the wonder then, the blame be none. 
If she, a timid Maid, hath put such boldness 
on. 



Judge both Fugitives with knowledge : 

In those old romantic days 
Mighty were the soul's commandments 
To support, restrain, or raise. 
Foes might hang upon their path, snakes 

rustle near. 
But nothing from their inward selves had 
they to fear. 



Thought infirm ne'er came between theiri, 

Whether prmting desert sands 
With accordant steps, or gatlicring 
Forest-fruit with social hands ; 
Or whispering like two reeds that in the cold 

moonbeam 
Bend with the breeze their heads, beside a 
crystal stream. 

XVII. 

On a friendly deck reposing 

They at length f(jr Venice steer ; 
There, when they had closed their vo-a"';, 
One, who daily on the pier 
Watched for tidings from the East, bch'. M 

his Lord, 
Fell down and clasped his knees for jo) , not 
uttering word. 

XVIII. 

Mutual was the sudden transport ; 

Breathless questions followed fast, 
Years contracting to a moment, 
Each word greedier tlian the last ; 
" Hie thee to the Countess, friend ! return 

with speed, 
And of this Stranger speak by whom her 
lord was freed. 



Say that I, who might have languisln 

Drooped and pined till life was spcnl, 
Now before the gates ol Stolberg 
My deliverer would present 
For a crowning recompense, the prccK us 

grace 
Of her who in my heart still holds her 
ancient place. 

XX. 

Make it known that my Companion 

Is of royal eastern blood, 
Thirsting after all perfection. 
Innocent, and meek, and good, 
Though with misbelievers bred: but that 

dark night 
W'ill holy Church disperse by beams o' 
gospel-light. 

XXI. 

Afiftly went t'liat gray-haired Servant, 
Soon returned a trusty Page 
Charged with greetings, benedictions, 
Thanks and praises, each a gage 
For a sunny thought to cheer the Stranger's 

way, 
Her virtuous scruples to remove, her fe»r9 
allay. 



«3' 



POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



XXII. 

And how blest the Reunited, 

While beneath tlieir castie-walls, 
Runs a deafening noise of welcome !— 
Blest, though every tear tliat falls 
Ooth in its silence of past sorrow tell, 
\nd makes a meeting seem most lilvc a dear 
farewell. 

xxni. 
Through a haze of human nature, 

Glorified by heavenly light. 
Looked the l:)cautiful Deliverer 
Oil that overpowering sight, 
While across her virgin cheek pure blushes 

strayed, 
For every' tender sacrifice her heart had 
made. 

XXIV. 

On the ground tlie weeping Countess 

Knelt, and kissed the Stranger's liand ; 
Act of soul-devoted homage. 
Pledge of an eternal band : 
Nor did aught of future days that kiss belie, 
Which, with a generous shout, the crowd 
did ratify. 

XXV. 

Constant to the fair Armenian, 

Gentle pleasures round her moved, 
Like a tutelary spirit 

Reverenced, like a sister, loved. 
Christian meekness smoothed for all the 

path of life. 
Who, loving most, should wiseliest love, 
their only strife. 

XXVI. 

Mute memento of that union 

In a Saxon church survives, 
Where a cross-legged Knight lies sculp- 
tured 
As between two wedded Wives, — ' 
Figures with armorial signs of race and 

birth, 
!lnd the vain rank the pilgrims bore while 
yet on earth. 
1830. ^ 

XXXV. 

LOVING AND LIKING: 

IRREGULAR VERSES, 
ADDRESSED TO A CHILD. 

(BY MY SISTER.) 

There's more in words than I can teach : 
Y?t listen, Child !— i would not preach 5 



But only give some plain directions 

To guide your speech and your affections. 

Say not you love a roasted fowl, 

But you may love a screaming owl, 

And, if you can, the unwiekly toad 

That crawls from his secure abode 

Within the mossy garden wall 

When evening dews begin to fall. 

Oh mark the beauty of his eye : 

W^hat wonders in that circle lie ! 

So clear, so bright, our father said 

lie wears a jewel in his head! 

And when, upon some showery day, 

Into a path or public way 

A frog leaps out fiom bordering grass, 

Startling the timid as they pass, 

Do you observe him, and endeavor 

To take the intruilcr into favor. 

Learning from him to find a reason 

For a light heart in a dull season. 

And you may love him in the pool, 

That is for him a happy school, 

In which he swims as taught by nature. 

Fit pattern for a human creature, 

Glancing amid the water bright. 

And sending upward sparkling light. 

Nor blush if o'er your heart be stealing 
A love for things that have no feeling ; 
The snrings first rose by you espied 
May fill your breast with joyful pride ; 
And you may love the strawberry-flower. 
And love the strawberry in its bower ; 
But when the fruit, so often praised 
For beauty, to your lip is raised, 
Say not you love the delicate treat. 
But like it, enjoy it, and thankfully eat. 

Long may you love your pensioner mouse, 
Though one of a tribe that torment the house : 
Nor dislike for her cruel sport the cat, 
Deadly foe both of mouse and rat ; 
R -member she follows the law of her kind, 
And Instinct is neither wayward nor blind. 
Then think of her beautiful gliding form, 
1 Icr tread that would scarcely crush a worm, 
And her soothing song by the winter fire, 
Soft as the dying throb of the lyre. 

1 would not circumscribe your love : 
It may soar with the eagle and brood with 

the dove. 
May pierce the earth with the patient mole 
Or track the hedgehog to his hole. 
Loving and liking are the solace of life. 
Rock the cradle of joy, smooth the death 

bed of strife. 
You love your father and your mother, 
Your grown-up and youi baby-brother j 



POEMS FOUND ILD OM THE AFFECTIONS. 



n-':^ 



You ]ov2 your sister, and your friends, 
And countless blessinjjs which God sends 
And while these right affections play, 
You live each moment of your day ; 
They lead you on to full content, 
And liking fresh and innocent, 
Tliat store the mind, the memory feed, 
And prompt to many a gentle deed : 
But likings come, and i^ass away ; 
'Tis /ctr that remains till our latest day : 
Our heavenward guide is holy love. 
And will be our bliss with saints above, 
1832. 



XXXVI. 



FAREWELL LINES, 

" High bliss is only for a higher state," 
But, surely, if severe afflictions borne 
With patience merit the reward of ])eace. 
Peace ye deserve ; and may the solid good, 
Sought by a wise though late exchange, and 

here 
With bounteous hand beneath a cottage-roof 
To you accorded, never be withdrawn. 
Nor for the world's best promises renounced. 
Most soothing was it for a welcome Friend, 
Fresh from the crowded city, to behold 
That lonely union, privacy so deep, 
Such calm employments, such entire content. 
So when the rain is over, tlie storm laid, 
A pair of herons oft-times have I seen. 
Upon a rocky islet, side by side, 
Drying their feathers in the sun, at ease : 
And so, when night with grateful gloom had 

fallen, 
Two glow-worms in such nearness that they 

shared, 
As seemed, their soft self-satisfying light, 
Each with the other, on the dewy ground. 
Where He that made them blesses their 

repose. — 
When wandering among lakes and hills I 

note. 
Once more, those creatures thus by nature 

paired, 
And guarded in their tranquil state of life, 
Even as your happy presence to my mind 
Their union brought, will they repay tiie debt, 
And send a tiiankful spirit back to you, 
With hope that we, dear Fricndb ! shall 

meet again. 



XXXVII. 

THE REDBREAST. 

(suggested in a WESTMORELAND COT- 
TAGE.) 

Driven in by .Autumn's sharpening air 

From half-stripped woods and pa.stures b..re. 

Brisk Robin seeks a kindlier home : 

Not like a beggar is he come. 

But enters as a looked-for guest, 

Confiding in his ruddy breast. 

As if it were a natural shield 

Charged with a blazon on the field, 

Due to that good and pious deed 

Of which we in the Ballad read. 

But pensive fancies putting by. 

And wild-wood sorrows, speedily 

He plays the expert ventriloquist; 

And, caught by glimpses now — now missed, 

Puzzles the listener with a doubt 

If the soft voice he throws about 

Comes from within doors or without I 

Was ever such a sweet confusion, 

Sustained by delicate illusion.'' 

He's at your elbow — to your feeling 

The notes are from the floor or ceiling ; 

And there's a riddle to be guessed, 

Till you have marked his heaving chest, 

And busy throat whose sink and swell 

Betray the Elf that loves to dwell 

In Robin's bosom, as a chosen cell. 

Heart-pleased we smile upon the '^ird 
If seen, and with like pleasure stirred 
Commend him, when he's only heard. 
But small and fugitive our gain 
Compared with hers who long hath lain, 
With languid limbs and patient head 
Reposing on a lone sick-bed ; 
Where now, she daily hears a strain 
That cheats her of too busy cares. 
Eases her pain, and helps her prayers, 
And who but this dear Bird beguiled 
The fever of that pale-faced Child ; 
Now cooling, with his passing wing. 
Her forehead, like a breeze of Spring r 
Recalling now, with descant soft 
Shed round her pillow from aloft. 
Sweet thoughts of angels hovering nigh, 
.And llie invisible sympathy 
Of " Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, 
Blessing the bed she lies upon 1 " * 

* The words — 

"Matthew, M;irk, and Luke, and J. ho, 
Bless tlie bed that I lie on," 
are part of a child's prayer, still in general use 
tiirough the noithem coui.ties. 



^34 



POEMS rOLJNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 



And sometimes, just as listening ends 
]n slumber, with the cadence blends 
A dream of that low-warbled hymn 
Which old folk, fondly pleased to trim 
Lamps of faith, now burning dim, 
! .<y that the Cherubs carved in stone, 
When clouds gave way at dead of night 
And the ancient church was filLd with 

light, 
Used to sing in heavenly tone, 
Above and round the sacred places 
They guard, with wmged baby-faccG. 

Thrice happy Creature ! in all lands 
Nurtured by hospitable hands: 
Free entrance to tliis cot has he, 
Entrance and exit both yet free ; 
And, when the keen unruffled weather 
That thus brings man and bird together, 
Fhall with its pleasantness be past, 
And casement closed and door made fast, 
To keep at bay the howling blast, 
lie needs not fear the season's rage, 
For_the whole house is Robin's cage. 
Wliether the bird flit here or there, 
O't'r table //Y/, or perch on chair. 
Though some may frown and make a stir 
To scare him as a trespasser. 
And he belike will flinch or start, 
G(!0 1 friends he has to take his part ; 
One chiefly, who with voice and look 
Pleads for him from the chimrtey-nook, 
VVhere sits the Dame, and wears away 
Her long and vacant holiday; 
With images about her heart, 
Reflected from the years gone by 
On human nature's second infancy. 

1834. 



XXXVIII. 

HER EYES ARE WILD. 
I. 

Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, 

The sun has burnt her coal-black hair ; 

Her eyebrows have a rusty stain. 

And she came far from over the main. 

She has a baby on her arm, 

Or else she were alone : 

And underneath the hay-stack warm, 

And on the greenwood stone, 

She talked and sung the woods among, 

And it was in the English tongue. 

II. 
"Sweet babe! they say that I am mad. 
But nay, my heart is far too glad ; 



And I am happy when I sing 
Full many a sad and doleful thing: 
Then, lovely baby, do not fear! 
I pray thee have no fear of me ; 
But safe as in a cradle, here 
My lovely baby! thou shalt be : 
To thee I know too much I owe; 
I cannot work thee any woe 



A fire was once within my brain ; 
And in my head a dull, dull pain ; 
And fiendish faces, one, two, tliree, 
Hung at my breast, and pulled at mcl 
But then there came a sight of joy ; 
It came at once to do me good ; 
I waked, and saw my little boy, 
My little boy of flesh and blood; 
Oh joy for me that sight to see I 
For he was here, ar..J only he. 



Suck, little babe, oh, suck again ! 
It cools my blood ; it cools my brain ; 
Thy lips I feel them, baby ! they 
Draw from my heart the pain away. 
Oh ! press me witli thy little hand ; 
It loosens something at my chest ; 
About that tight and deadly band 
I feel tiiy little fingers prest. 
Tiie breeze I see is in the tree : 
It comes to cool my babe and me. 



Oh ! love me, love me, little boy I 
Thou art thy mother's only joy ; 
And do not dread the waves below, 
When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go; 
The high crag cannot work me harm, 
Nor leaping torrents when they howl ; 
The babe I carry on my ai m. 
He saves for me my precious soul ; 
Then happy lie ; for blest am I ; 
Without me my sweet babe would die 



Then do not fear, my boy ! for thee 

Bold as a lion will I be ; 

And I will always be thy guide, 

'J'hrough hollow snows and rivers wide 

I'll build an Indian bower ; I know 

The leaves that make the softest bed -. 

And, if from me thou wilt not go, 

But still be true till I am dead. 

My pretty thing ! then thou shalt sing 

As merry as the birds in spring. 



FORMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS 



^V5 



Thy father cares not for my breast, 
Tis thine, sweet bdby, there to rest ; 
Tis all thine own ! — and, if its hue 
Be changed, that was S" fair to view, 
'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove ! 
My beauty, httle child, is flown, 
Hut thou wilt live with me in love; 
And what if my poor check be brown? 
'Tis well for me, thou canst not see 
How pale and wan it else would be. 



Dread not the"r taunts, my little Life ; 
1 am thy father's wedded wife ; 
And underneath the spreading tree 
We two will live in honesty. 
If his sweet boy he could fors.VK-, 
With me he never would have stayed ; 
From him no harm my babe can t-;k/^ ; 
But he, poor man ! is wretched made i 
And every day we two will pray 
For hiHtt that's gone and far away. 



I'll teach my boy the sweetest thinfjs; 

I'll teach him how the owlet sings. 

My little babe ! thy lips are still^ 

And thou hast almost sucked thy fill, 

— Where art thou gone, my own dear childi' 

What wicked looks are those I see .'' 

Alas ! alas ' that look so wild, 

It never, never came from me : 

If thou art mad, my pretty lad, 

Then I must be forever sad. 



Oh ! smile on me, my little lamb! 

I'or I thy own dear motiier am : 

My love for thee has well been tried: 

I've sought thy father far and wide. 

i know tlie poisons of the shadr; 

I know the earth-nuts fit for food : 

I'hen, pretty dear, be not afraid : 

We'll find thy father in the wood. 

Now laugh and be gay, to the woods awiy' 

And there, my babe, we'll live for aye." 



POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

By persons resident in the country and attached to rural objects, many places will be found 
unnamed or of unknown names, where little Incidents must liave occurred, or feelings been ex- 
perienced, which wi.l have given to such places a private and peculiar interest. From a wisli to 
give some sort of record to such Incidents, and renew the gratificatioti of such feelings. Names 
have been given to P.aces by the Author and some of his Friends, and the following Poems 
wrUen in consequence. 



I. 

It was an April morning : fresh and clear 
'I'he Rivulet, delighting in its strength, 
Ran with a yotmg man's speed ; and yet the 

voice 
Of waters which the winter had supplied 
Was softened down into a vernal tone. 
The spirit of enjoyment and desire, 
Ant! hopes and wishes, from all living things 
W^nt circling, like a multitude of sounds, 
'i'hi budding groves seemed eager to tirgeon 
The steps of June ; as if their various hues 
Were only hindrances that stood between 
Them and their object : but, meanwhile, 

prevailed 
Such an entire contentment in the air 
That every naked ash, and tardy tree 
Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance 
With which it looked on thisdelightfr.l day 
Were native to tlie summer. — Up the urook 
I roamed in the confusion of my heart, 
Alive to all things and forgetting all. 
At length I to a sudden turning came 
In this continuous glen, where down a rock 
The stream, so ardent in its course before, 
Sent forth such sallies of glad sound that all 
Which I till then had lieard appeared the 

voice 
Of common pleasure : beast and bird, V.ie 

lamb, 
The shepherd's dog, tlie "linnet and the 

thrush 
Vied with this waterfall, and made a song 
Which, while I listened, seemed like the 

wild growth 
Or like some natural produce of the air, 
That could not cease to be. Green leaves 

were here ; 
But 'twas the foliage of the rocks — the birch, 
The yew, the holly, and the bright green 

thorn, 
With hanging islands of resplendent furze: 
And, on a .^immit, distant a short space, 



By any who should look beyond the dell, 
A single mountam-cottage might be seen. 
I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said, 
" Our thoughts at least are ours ; and this 

wild nook, 
INIy Emma, I will dedicate to thee." 
Soon did the spot become my other 

home. 
My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode. 
And, of the shepherds who have seen me 

there, 
To whom I sometimes in our idle talk 
Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps, 
Years after we arc gone and in our graves. 
When they have cause to speak of this wild 

place, 
May call it by the name of Emma's Dell. 
1800. 



TO JOANNA. 

Amid the smoke of cities did you pass 
The time of early youth ; and there you 

learned. 
From years of quiet industry, to love 
The Jiving Beings by your own fireside, 
With such a strong devotion that your heart 
Is slow to meet the sympathies of them 
Who look upon the hills with tenderness. 
And make dear friendships with the streams 

and groves. 
Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind. 
Dwelling retired in oin- simplicity 
Among the woods and fields, we love you 

well, 
Joanna ! and I guess, since you have been 
So distant from us now for two long years, 
That you will gladly listen to discourse, 
However trivial, if you thence be taught 
That they, with whom you once were happy, 

talk 
Familiarly of you and of old times. 



POEAfS OJV Tim NAMING OF PLACES. 



n^i 



While I was seated, now some ten days 

past, 
Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop 
Their ancient neiglibor, the old steeple-tower, 
Tlie Vicar from his gloomy house hard by 
Came forth to greet me ; and when he had 

asked, 
■' I low fares Joanna, tliat wild-hearted Maid ! 
And wlien will she return to us ? " he paused ; 
And, after short excliange of village news, 
He with grave looks demanded, for what 

cause, 
Reviving obsolete idolatry, 
1, like a Runic Priest, in characters 
Of formidable size had chiselled out 
Some uncouth name upon the native rock, 
Above the Rotha, by the forest-side. 
— Now, by those dear immunities of heart 
luigendeied between malice and true love, 
1 was not loth to be so catechised. 
And' this was my reply :— " As it befell, 
(.)ne summer moniiii^^ we had walked abroad 
At break of day, Joanna and myself. 
— 'Twas tiiat deliglitful sea.son when the 

broom, 
Full-flowered, and visible in every steep, 
Along the co}>ses rims in veins of gold. 
Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks ; 
And when we came in front of tliat tall rock 
That eastward looks, I there stopped short — 

and stood 
Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye 
From base to summit : such delight I found 
To note in shrub and tree, in stone and 

flower, 
That intermixture of delicious hues, 
Along so vast a surface, all at once, 
In one impression, by connecting force 
Of their own beauty, imaged m the heart. 
—When 1 had gazed perhaps two minutes' 

space, 
Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld 
riiat ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud. 
The Rock, like something starting from a 

sleep, [again ; 

Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed 
That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag, 
Was ready with her cavern ; Ilammar-scar 
And the tall Steep of Silver-how, sent forth 
A noise of laughter ; southern Loughrigg 

heard, 
And Fairfield answered with a mountain 

tone ; 
Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky 
Carried the Lady's voice, — old Skiddaw bk-w 
His speakmg trumpet: back out of the 

clouds 



Of Glaramara southward come the voice ; 
.'Vnd Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head. 
— Now whether (said I (o our cordial Friend, 
Wlio in the hey-day of astonishment 
Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth 
A work accomplished by two biotherhood 
Of ancient mountams, or my ear was touched 
Witii dreams and visionary impulses 
To me alone imparted, sure 1 am 
That there was a loud uproar in the hills. 
And. while we both were listening, to my side 
The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished 
To shelter from some object of her fear. 
—And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen 

moons 
Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone 
Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on r. calm 
And silent morning, I sat down, and there, 
In memory of affections old and true, 
I chiselled out in those rude characters 
Joanna's name deep in the living stone : — 
And I, and all who dwell by my fireside, 
.Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's 
Rock." 
iSoo. 

Note.—\x\ Cumberland and Westmoreland 
are several Inscriptions upon the native rock, 
which from the wasting of time, and tlie rude- 
ness of the workmanship, have bt-en mistaken 
for Runic. They are witliout doubt Roman. 

The Rotha, mentioned in this poem, is the 
River whicli, flowing through the lakes of Cras- 
mere and Rydaie, falls into Wynandermeie. 
On Helmcrag, tliat impressive single mountain 
at the liead of tlie Vale of Giasmere, is a rock 
which from most points of view hears a striking 
resemblance to an old woman cwering. Close 
by this rock is one of those fissures or caverns 
which in the language! f the country are called 
dungeons. Most of the mountains here men- 
tioned innnediaiely surround the Vale of tiras- 
more ; of .the others, some are at a considearble 
distance, but they belong to the same cluster. 



There is an Eminence, — of these ourhilU 
The last tliat parleys with the setting sim ; 
We can b hold it from our orchard-seat ; 
And, when at evening we pinsue our walk 
Along the public way, this Peak, so high 
Above us, and so distant in its htight, 
Is visible ; and often seems to send 
Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts. 
The meteors make of it a favorite haimt ; 
The star of Jove, so beautiful and large 
In the mid heavens, is never half so tair 
As when he shines above it. 'lis m t; i.:h 



138 



POEMS OU THE NAMING OF PLACES. 



The loneliest place we have among the 

clouds. 
And She who dwells with me, whom I have 

loved 
With such communion that no place on 

earth 
Can ever be a solitude to me, 
Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name. 

1800. 

IV. 

A NARROW girdle of rough stones and crags, 
A rude and natural causeway, interposed 
Between the water and a winding slope 
Of copse and thicket, leaves tlie eastern 

sliore 
Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy : 
And there myself and two beloved Friends, 
One calm September morning, ere the mist 
Had altogetlier yielded to the sun, 
Sauntered on this retired and difficult way. 
Ill suits the road with one in haste ; but 

we 
Played with our time ; and, as we strolled 

along, 
It was our occupation to observe 
Such objt cts as the waves had tossed ashore— 
Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough, 
Or tlie dry wreck. And, in our vacant moiu'. 
Not seldom did we stop to watcli soau^ tult 
Each on the other heaped, along the line 
Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard, 
That skimmed the surface of the dead calm 

lake. 
Suddenly halting now — a lifeless stand ! 
And starting off again with freak as sudden ; 
In all its sportive wanderings, alHlif wliile, 
Making report of an invisible breeze 
'I'iiat was its wings, its chariot, and its horse. 
Its playmate, rather say, its moving soul. 

And often, trifling with a privilege 

.Mike indulged to all, we paused, one now, 

And now the other, to point out, perchance 

'I'o pUick,some flower or water-weed,too fair 

Fithf^rlo be divided from the place 

On wiiich it grew, or to be left alone 

Te its own beauty. Many such there are, 

F^air ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall 

fern. 
So stately, of the Queen Osmunda named ; 
Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode 
On GrasniL-re's beach, than Naiad by the 

side 
Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere, 
Sole-si tt in;; by the shores of old romance. 
— So fared we that bright morning : from 

the liclds. 



Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busj 

mirth 
Of reapers, men and women, boys and girls> 
Delighted much to listen to those sounds. 
And feeding thus our fancies we advanced 
Along the indented shore ; when suddenly, 
Through a thin veil of glittering haze waf 

seen 
Before us, on a point of jutting land ; 
The tall and upright figure of a Man 
Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone, 
Angling beside the margin of the lake. 
" Improvident and reckless," we exclaimed, 
" The Man must be, who thus can lose a 

day 
Of the mid harvest, when the laborer's hire 
Is ample, and some little might be stored 
Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time " 
Thus talkmg of that Peasant, we approached 
Close to the spot where with his rod and 

line 
He stood alone ; whereat he turned his head 
To greet us — and we saw a Man worn down 
By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken 

cheeks 
And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean 
That for my single self 1 looked at them, 
Forgetful of the body they sustained. — 
Too weak to labor in the harvest field. 
The Man was using his best skill to gain 
.•\ pittance from the dead unfeeling lake 
Tiiat knew not of his wants. 1 will not say 
What thoughts immediately were ours, nor 

how 
The happy idleness of that sweet morn, 
With all its lo\ t-Iy images, was changed 
To serious musing and to self-reproach. 
Nor did we fail to see within ourselves 
What need there is to be reserved in speech 
.\nd temper all our thoughts with chanty. 
— Therefore, unwilling to forget that day. 
My F'riend, Myself, and She who th.n re 

ceived [plac« 

The same admonishment, have called tb 
By a memorial name, uncouth indeed 
.\s e'er by mariner was given to bay 
C)r foreland, on a new-discovered coast ; 
And Point Rash-Judgment is the namt 

it bears. 
1800. 



TO M. H. 



Our walk was far among tlie ancient tree*; 
There was no road, nor any woodman'* 
path ; 



POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 



139 



But a thick umbrage — checking the wild 

growth 
Of weed and sapUns;, alon? soft green turf 
Beneath the branches— of itself had made 
A track, that broun;ht us to r slip of lawn, 
And a small bed of water in tlie woods. 
\}\ round this pool both flocks and iierds 

mi^ht drink 
3n its firm margin, even as from a well, ^ 
Or some stone basin which the herdsman s 

hand , 

Had shaped for their refreshment ; nor did 

sun, 
Or wind, from any quarter ever come> 
But as a blessing to this calm recess, 
This glade of water and this one green field, 
'riie spot was made by Nature for herself ; 
The travellers know it not, and 'twill remam 
Unknown to them ; but it is beautiful ; 
And if a man should plant his cottage near. 
Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees, 
And blend its waters with his daily meal. 
He would so love it that in his death-hour 
Its imaoe would survive among his thoughts : 
And th'erefore, my sweet Mary, this still 

Nook, 
With all its beeches, we have named from 
You ! 
1800. 



VI. 



When, to the attractions of the busy 

world, 
Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen 
A habitation in this peaceful Vale, 
Sliarp season followed of continual storm 
In deepest winter; and, from week to week, 
Pathway, and lane, and public road were 

clogged 
With frequent showers of snow. Upon a 
hill , 

At a short distance from my cottage, stands 
A stately Fir-grove, whither J was wont 
'i'o hasten, for I found, beneath the roof 
■Jf that perennial shade, a cloistral place 
Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor. 
Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow, 
And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth. 
The redbreast near me hopped ; nor was I 

loth . ,. , 

To sympathize with vulgar coppice birds 
Tliat, for protection from the nipping blast. 
Hither repaired.— .'V single beech-tree grew 
W^ithin this grove of firs ! and, on the fork 
Of that one beech, appeared a thrush s 



A last year's nest, conspicuously built 
At such small elevation from the ground 
As gave sure sign that they, who m that 

house 
Of nature and of love had made their home 
Amd the fir-trees, all the summer long 
Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes, 
A few sheep, stragglers from some mountain- 
flock, 
Would watch my motions with suspicions 

stare, 
r rom the remotest outskirts of the grove,—- 
Some nook where they had made their final 

stand. 
Huddling together from two fears— the fear 
Of me and of the storm. Full many an 

hour 
Here did 1 lose. But in this grove the trees 
Had been so tliickly planted, and had 

thriven 
In such perplexed and intricate array. 
That vainly did I seek beneath their stems 
A length of open space, where to and fro 
My feet might move without concern or 

care ; , , , i. 

And, baffled thus, though earth from day to 

Was fettered, and the air by storm dis- 
turbed, . 
I ceased the shelter to frequent,— and prized 
Less than 1 wished to pi ize, that calm recess. 
The snows dissolved and genial Spring 
returned 
To clothe the fields with verdure. Other 
haunts . 
Meanwhile were mine ; till, one briglU April 

day. 
By cliance retiring from the glare ot noon 
To tliis forsaken covert, there I found 
\ hoary pathway traced between the trees, 
And winding on with such an easy line 
Alon"- a natural opening, that 1 stood 
Mucli wondering how 1 could have sought 

in vain 'r 1 • 1 

For what was now so obvious. To abide, 
For an allotted interval of ease. 
Under my cottage-roof, liad gladly come 
From the wild sea a cherished Visitant ; 
And with the sight of this same path— be- 
gun, 
Be-^un and ended, in the shady grove, 
Pleksant conviction flashed upon my mind 
That, to this opportune recess allured. 
He had surveyed it with a finer eye, 
A heart more wakeful ; and had worn tbo 
track 



i4<) 



POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 



By pacing here, unwearied and alone, 

In that habitual restlessness of foot 

That haunts the Sailor measuring o'er and 

o'er 
His short domain upon the vessel's deck, 
Wliile she pursues her cour-se through the 

dreary s&a. 

When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's 

pleasant shore, 
And taken thy first leave cf those green 

hills 
And rocks tliat were the play-ground of thy 

youth, 
Year followed year, my Brother ! and we 

two. 
Conversing not, knew little in what mould 
Each other's mind was fashioned ; and at 

length. 
When once again we met in Grasmere Vale, 
Between us there was little other bond 
Than common feelings of fraternal love. 
But tliou, a School-boy, to the sea hadst 

carried 
Undying recollections ; Nature there 
Was with thee; she, who loved us both, she 

still 
Was with thee ; and even so didst thou be- 
come 
A silent Poet ; from the solitude 
Of the vast sea didst bring a watch.fwl heart 
Still couchant, an inevitable ear, 
And an eye practiced like a blind man's 

touch. 
— Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone ; 
Nor from this vestige of thy musing hours 
Could I withhold thy honored name,— and 

now 
I love the fir-grove with a perfect love. 
Thither do 1 withdraw when cloudless suns 
Shine hot, or wind blows troubicsome and 

strong ; 
And there I sit at evening when the steep 
Of Silvcr-liow, and Crasmere's peaceful lake, 
And one green island, gleam between the 

stems 
Of the dark firs, a visionary scene ! 
And, while I gaze upon the spectacle 
Of clouded splendor, on this dream-like 

sight 
Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee. 
My Brother, and on all which thou hast lost. 
Nor seldom^ if I rightly piiess, wh^le Thou, 
Muttering the verses which I nutored first 
Among the mountains, tinough the mid- 
night watch 



Art pacing thoughtfully the vessel's deck 
In some far region, here, while o'er my head. 
At every impulse of the moving breeze. 
The fir-grove murmur with a sca-like sound 
Alone 1 tread this path ; — for aught I knew, 
Timing my steps to thine ; and, with a store 
Of undist.nguishable sympatliies. 
Mingling most earnest wishes for the day 
When we, and others whom we love, shall 

meet 
A second time, in Grasmere's happy Vale. 
1805. 

Note. — This wish was not granted ; the la- 
mented Person not long after perished by ship- 
wreck, ni discharge of Ins duty as Commander 
of the Honorable East India Company's Ves- 
sel, the Earl of Abergavenny. 



VII. 



Forth from a jutting ridge, around whose 

base 
Winds our deep Vale, two heath-clad Rocks 

ascend 
In fellowship, the loftiest of the pair 
Rising to no ambitious height ; yet both. 
O'er lake and stream, mountain and flowery 

mead. 
Unfolding prospects fair as human eyes 
Ever beheld. Up-led with mutual help. 
To one or other brow of those twin Peaks 
Were two adventurous Sisters wont to climb, 
And took no note of the hour while thence 

they gazed, 
The blooming heath their couch, gazed, side 

by side. 
In speechless admiration. 1, a witness 
.•\nd frequent sharer of their calm delight 
With thankful heart, to either Eminence 
Gave the baptismal name each Sister bore. 
Now are they parted, far as Death's cold 

hand 
Hath power to part the Spirits of those wlic 

love 
As they did love. Ye kindred Pinnacies- 
That, while the generations of mankind 
Follow each other to their hiding-place 
In time's abyss, are privileged to endure 
Beautiful in yourselves and richly graced 
With like command of beauty— grant your 

aid 
For Mary's humble, Sarah's silent, claini, 
That their pure joy in nature may survive 
From age to age in blended memory. 
1845. 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



I. 

A MORNING EXERCISE. 

Fancy, who leads the pastimes of the c;lad, 
Full oft is pleased a wayward dart to 

throw ; 
Sending sad shadows after things not sad, 
i'copling the harmless fields with signs of 

woe : 
Beneath her sway, a simple forest cry 
Becomes an echo of man's misery. 

Blithe ravens croak of death ; and when 
the owl 
Tries his two voices for a favorite strain — 
Tu-whit — Tic-Tvhoo ! the unsuspecting fowl 
Forebodes mishap or seems but to com- 
plain ; 
Fancy, intent to harass and annoy, 
Can thus pervert the evidence of joy. 

Through border wilds where naked In- 
dians stray. 

Myriads of notes attest her subtle skill ; 

A feathered task-master cries, '- Work 
away!" 

And, in thy iteration, " Whip poor 
Will!"* 

Is heard the spirit of a toil-worn slave. 

Lashed out of life, nor quiet in the grave. 

What wonder? at her bidding, ancient 

lays 
Steeped in dire grief the voice of Philomel ; 
And that fleet messenger of summer days, 
The Swallow, twittered subject to like 

spell ; 
But ne'er could Fancy bend the buoyant 

Lark 
To melancholy service — hark! O hark! 

The daisy sleeps upon the dewy lawn. 
Not lifting yet the head that evening bowed ; 
But He is risen, a later star of dawn. 
Glittering and twinkling near yon rosy 
cloud ; 



* See Waterjou's Wanderings in South 
America. 



Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark ; 
The happiest bird that sprang out of the 
Ark! 

Hail, blest above all kinds ! — Supremely 
skilled 
Restless with fixed to balance, high with 

low, 
Thou leav'st the halcyon free her hopes to 
1 build 

On such forbearance as the deep may show ; 
Perpetual flight, unchecked by earthlv ties, 
j Leav'st to the wandering bird of paradise. 

I Faithful, though swift as lightning, the 

I meek dove ; 

, Yet more hath Nature reconciled in thee ; 

i So constant with thy downward eye of love, 
Yet, in aerial singleness, so free ; 
So humble, yet so ready to rejoice 
In power of wing and never-wearied voice. 

To the last point of vision, and beyond, 
Mount, daring warbler ! — that love-prompted 

strain, 
('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) 
i Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : 
Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege I to 

sing 
All independent of the leafy spring. 

How would it please old Ocean to par- 
take, 
With sailors longing for a breeze in vain, 
The harmony thy notes most gladly make 
Where earth resembles most his own 

domain ! 
Urania's self might welcome with pleased 

ear 
These matins mounting towards her native 
sphere. 

Chanter by heaven attracted, whom no 

bars 
To day-light known deter from that pursuit, 
'Tis well that some sage instinct, when the 

stars 
Come forth at evening, keeps Thee ?till and 



mute; 



C14O 



»v;2 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



For not an eyelid r.^\\\d ti ^leep incfine 
Wert tnou rti.Ki,^ vh^Hi, jKi^iiig as they 
shine ! 
1828. 



II. 



A FLOWER GARDEN, 

AT COLEORTON HALL, LE1CESTER.<KI J:i,. 

Tell me, ye Zephyrs ! that unfold, 

Wliile fluttering o'er this gay Recess 

I'inions that fanned the teeming mould 

Of Eden's blissful wilderness, 

Did only softly-stealing hours 

There close the peaceful lives of flowers ? 

Say, when the moving creatures saw 
All kinds commingled without fear. 
Prevailed a like indulgent law 
For the still growths that prosper hcivi ^ 
Did wanton fawn and kid forbear 
The half- blown rose, the lily spare ? 

Or peeped they often from their beds 
And prematurely disappeared, 
Devoured like pleasure ere it spreads 
A bosom to the sun endeared ? 
If such their harsh untimely doom. 
It falls not here on bud or bloom. 

All summer long the happy Eve 
Of this fair Spot her flowers may bind. 
Nor e'er, with ruffled fancy, grieve. 
From the next glance she casts, to find 
That love for little things by Fate 
Is rendered vain as love for great. 

Yet, where the guardian fence is wound, 
So subtly are our eyes beguiled 
We see not nor suspect a bound, 
No more than in some forest wild ; 
The sight is free as air — or crost 
Only by art in nature lost. 

And, though the jealous turf refuse 
By random footsteps to be prcst, 
And feed on never-sullied dews, 
Yi\ gentle breezes from the west. 
With all the ministers of hope 
Are tempted to this sunny slope. 

^nd hither throngs of birds resort ; 
Some, inmates lodged in shady nests. 
Some, perched on stems of stately port 
That nod to welcome transient guests j 
While hare and leveret, seen at play, 
Appear not more shut out than they. 



Apt emblem (for reproof of pride) 
This delicate enclosure shows 
Of modest kindness, that would hide 
The firm protection she bestows ; 
Of manners, like its viewless fence, 
Ensuring peace to innocence. 

Thus spake the moral Muse — her wing 
Abruptly spreading to depart. 
She left that farewell offering, 
Memento for some docile heart ; 
That may respect the good old age 
Wlien fancy was Truth's willing Page; 
And Truth would skim the flowery glade, 
Thougli entering but as Fancy's Shade. 
1S24 



A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill 
Rushed o'er the wood with startling soundj 
Then — all at once the air was still, 
And showers of hailstones pattered round, 
Where leafless oaks towered high above, 
I sat within an undergrove 
Of tallest hollies, tall and green ; 
A fairer bower was never seen. 
From year to year the spacious floor 
With withered leaves is covered o'er. 
And all the year the bower is green. 
But see! where'er the hailstones drop 
The withered leaves all skip and hop; 
There's not a breeze— no breath of air ^ 
Yet here, and there, and everywhere 
Along the floor, beneath the shade 
By those embowering hollies made, 
The leaves in myriads jump and spring, 
As if with pipes and music rare 
Some Robin Gcod-fellow were there, 
And all those leaves, in festive glee. 
Were dancing to the minstrelsy. 
1799. 



THE WATERFALL AND THE 
EGLANTINE. 



" Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,* 

Exclaimed an angry Voice, 

" Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self 

Between me and my choice ! " 

A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows 

Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose, 



POEnrs oj 



yiE FAA'CY. 



143 



That, all bespattered with his fcnim, 
And dancing iiigh and dancing low, 
Was living, as a child might know, 
In an unhappy iiome 

II. 

* Dost thou presume my course to block ? 

Off, off ! or, puny Thing ! 

I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock 

To wliich thy fibres cling." 

The Flood was tyrannous and strong ; 

The patient Rriar suffered long, 

Nor did lie utter groan or sigh, 

Hoping the danger would be past j 

But, seeing no relief, at last, 

He ventured to reply. 



" Ah ! " said the Briar, " blame me not ; 

Why should we dwell in strife? 

Wc who in this sequestered spot 

Once lived a happy life ! 

You stirred me on my rocky bed — 

What pleasure through my veins you 

spread ! 
The summer long, from day to day, 
Mv leaves you freshened and bedewed ; 
Nor was it common gratitude 
That did your cares repay. 



When spring came on with bud and bell, 

Among these rocks did I 

Before you hang my wreaths to tell 

That gentle days were nigh ! 

And in the sultry summer hours, 

I sheltered vou with leaves and flowers ; 

And in my leaves — now shed and gone, 

The linnet lodged, and for us two 

Chanted his pretty songs, when you 

Had little voice or none. 



Hut now proud thoughts -arc in your 

breast — 
What grief is mine you see, 
Ah ! would you think, even yet how blest 
Together we might be I 
Though of both leaf and flower bereft. 
Some ornaments to me are left — 
Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, 
With which I, in my humble way. 
Would deck you many a winter day, 
A happy Eglantine 1 " 



What more he said I cannot tell. 
The Torrent down the rocky dell 
Came tinmdering loud and fast ; 
I listened, nor aught else could hear ; 
The Briar quaked — and much 1 fear 
Those accents were his last. 
iSoo. 



V. 

THE OAK AND THE BROOM. 



A PASTORAL. 



His simple truths did Andrew glean 

Beside the babbling rills ; 

A careful student he had been 

Among the woods and hills. 

One winter's night, when throu<;h the trees 

The wind was roaring, on his knees 

His youngest born did Andrew hold: 

And while the rest, a ruddy quire, 

Were seated round their blazing lire, 

This Tale the Shepherd told. 

II. 
'■ I saw a crag, a lofty stone 
As ever tempest beat ! 
Out of its head an Oak had grown, 
.A Broom out of its feet. 
The time was March, a cheerful noon — 
The thaw-wind, with the breath of June. 
Breathed gently from the warm south-west j 
When, in a voice sedate with age, 
This Oak, a giant and a sage, 
His neighbor thus addressed : — 



in. 

weeks. 



through rock and 



' Eight weary 

clay, 
Along this mountain's edge, 
The Frost hath wrought both night .tnd 

day. 
Wedge driving after wedge. 
Look up ! and think, above your head 
What trouble, surely, will be bred ; 
Last night, I heard a crash — 'tis true, 
The splinters took another road — 
1 .^ee them yonder — what a load 
For such a Thing as you ! 

IV. 

Vou are preparing as before 

To deck your slender shape ; 

.And yet, just three years back — no raoF»— 

You had a strange escape ; 



144 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



Down from yon cliff a fra£;iiient broke ; 
It thundered down with fire and smoke, 
And Iiitherward pursued its way ; 
This ponderous block was caught by me, 
And o'er your head, as you may see, 
'Tis hanging to this day ! 



if breeze or bird to this rough steep 

Your kind's first seed did bear, 

The breeze had better been asleep, 

The bird caugiit in a snare : 

For you and your green twigs decoy 

Tiie little witless shepherd-boy 

To come and slumber in your bower ; 

And, trust me, on some sultiy noon, 

Both you and he. Heaven knows how soon I 

Will perish in one hour. 



From me this friendly warning take 
The Broom began to doze. 
And thus to keep herself awake, 
Did gently interpose : 
' My tlianks for your discourse are due 
That more than what you say is true, 
I know, and I have known it long ; 
Frail is the bond by which we hold 
Our being, whether young or old. 
Wise, foolish, weak or strong. 



Disasters, do the best we can, 

Will reach both great and small ; 

And he is oft the wisest man 

Who is not wise at all. 

For me, why should I wish to roam 

This spot is my paternal home, 

It is my pleasant heritage ; 

My father many a hai:)py year 

Spread here his careless blossoms, here 

Attained a good old ace. 



Even such as his may be my lot. 

What cause have I to haunt 

My heart with terrors ? Am I not 

In truth a favored \)\-avX ! 

On me such bounty Sunnner pours, 

That I am covered o'tr witli flowers ; 

And, when th^ Frost is in the sky, 

Mv branches are so fresh and gay 

That you might look at me and say, 

This riant can never die. 



The butterfly, all green and gold, 
To me hath often flown, 
Here in my blossoms to behold 
Wings lovely as his own. 
When grass is chill with rain or dew, 
Beneath my i hade, the mijther-ewe 
Lies with her infant lamb; I see 
The love they to each other make, 
And the sweet joy which they partake, 
It is a joy to me.' 

X, 

Her voice was blithe, her heart was light; 
The Broom might have pursued 
Her speech, until the stars of niglit 
Their journey had renewed ; 
But in the branches of the oak 
Two ravens now began t(j croak 
Their nuptial song, -a gladsome air; 
And to her own green bower the breeze 
That instant brought two stripling bees 
To rest, or murmur there. 



One night, my Children ! from the north 
There came a furious blast ; 
At break of day I ventured forth. 
And near the cliff I passed. 
The storm had fallen upon the Oak, 
And struck him witii a mighty stroke, 
And whirled, and whirled him far away 
And, in one liospitable cleft. 
The little careless Broom was left 
To live for many a day." 
1800. 



TO A SEXTON. 

Let thy wheel-barrow alone — 

Wherefore, Sexton, piling still 

In thy bone-house bone on bone ? 

'Tis already like a hill 

In a field of battle made. 

Where three thousand skulls are laid '. 

These died in-peace each with the other, 

Father, sister, friend, and brother. 

Mark the spot to which I point ! 
From this platform, eight fort square 
'J'ake not even a finger-joint : 
.Andrew's whole fireside is there. 
Here, alone, before thine eyes, 
Simon's sickly daughter lies, 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



45 



From weakness now, and pain defended, 
Whom he twenty winters tended. 

Look but at the gardener's pride — 
How he glories, wlien be sees 
Roses, Hlies, side by side, 
^'iolets in families ! 
Dy tlie heart of Man, his tears, 
By liis hopes and by his fears, 
Thou, too heedless, art the Warden 
Of a far superior garden. 

Tims then, each to other dear, 
Let them all in quiet lie, 
.Andrew there, and Susan here, 
Neighbors in mortality. 
And, should I live throui,di sun and rain 
Seven widowed years without my Jane, 
O Sexton, do not then remove hei'. 
Let one grave hold the Loved and L(jvcr ! 
1799. 



TO THE DAISY. 

" Her * divine skill taught me this, 
That from everything I saw 
I could some instruction draw. 
And raise pleasure to tiie height 
'Jlirough the meanest object's sight. 
Ly tiie murmur of a spring. 
Or the least bough's rustelling : 
By a Daisy whose leaves spread 
Shut when Titan goes to bed ; 
Or a shady bush or tree ; 
She could more infuse in me 
Than all Nature's beauties can 
In some other w^iscr man.'' 

G. Wither. 

In youth from rock to rock I went, 
From hill to iiill in discontent 
Of pleasure high and turbulent. 

Most pleased when most uneasy ; 
But now my own delights 1 make, — 
My tkirst at every rill can slake, 
And gladly Nature's love partake. 

Of Thee, sweet Daisy ! 

Thee Winter in the garland wears 
That thinly decks his few gray hairs ; 
Spring i)arts the clouds with softest airs. 
That she may sun thee ; 



* His muse. 



Whole Summer-fields are thine by right ; 
And Autumn, melancholy Wight ! 
Doth in thy crimson head delight 
When rains are on thee. 

In shoals and bands, a niorrice train, 
Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane; 
Pleased at his greeting thee again ; 

Yet nothing daunted, 
Nor grieved if thou be set at naught : 
And oft alone in nooks remote 
\\'e meet thee, like a pleasant thought. 

When such are wanted. 

De violets in their secret mews 

The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose; 

Pnnid be the rose, with rains and dews 

Her head impearling. 
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, 
Yet hast not gone without thy fame ; 
Thou art indeed by many a claim 

The poet's darling. 

If to a rock from rains he fly. 
Or, some bright day of April sky, 
Imprisoned by hot sunsliine lie 

Near the green holly, 
And wearily at length should fare ; 
He needs but look about, and there 
'i'hou art ! — a friend at hand, to scare 

His n>€lancholy. 

A hundred times, by rock or bower. 
Ere thus I have lain couched an hour. 
Have I derived from thy sweet power 

Some apprehension ; 
.Some steady love ; some brief delight ; 
Some memory that had taken flight ; 
Some chime of fancy wrong or right ; 

Or stray invention. 

If stately passions in me burn, 

And one chance look to Tliee should turn 

I drink out of an humbler urn 

A lowlier pleasure ; 
The homely sympathy that heeds 
The conunon life our nature breeds : 
A wisdom fitted to the needs 

Of hearts at leisure. 

Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, 
When thou art up, alert and gay, 
Then, cheerful Flower ! my spirits play 

With kindred gladness : 
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest 
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest 
Hatii often eased my ]-)ensive breast 

of careful sadnebs. 



14^ 



POEMS OF 'JlIE FAN'CY. 



And all day Ion;; I number yet. 
All seasons tluough, another debt, 
Whicli I, wherever thou ai t met, 

To thee am owinc; ; 
An instinct call it, a blind sense 
A iiappy, genial influence, 
Coming ont knows not how, nor whence, 

Nor whither going. 

Child of the Year ! that round dost run 
Tiiy pleasant course, — when day's begun 
As ready to salute the sun 

As lark or leveret, 
Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain : 
Nor be less dear to future men 
Than in old time ; — thou not in vain 

Art Nature's favorite.* 
1S02. 



O THE SAME FLOWER. 

With little here to do or see 

Of things that in the great world be. 

Daisy ! again I talk to thee, 

For thou art worthy, 
Thou unassuming Common-place 
Of Nature, with that homely face, 
And yet with something of a grace 

Which love makes for thee I 

Oft on the dappled turf at ease 

I sit, and play with similes. 

Loose types of things through all degrees, 

Thoughts of thy raising : 
And many a fond and idle name 
1 give to thee, for praise or blame 
As is the humor of the game, 

While I am gazing. 

A nun demure of lowly port; 

Or sprightly maiden of Love's court, 

\r\ thy simplicity the sport 

Of all temptations ; 
A queen in crown of rubies drest ; 
A starveling in a scanty vest ; 
Are all. as seems to suit thee best, 

Thy appellations. 

\ little Cyclops, with one eye 
St.iring to threaten and defy, 
That thought comes next — and inst.mtiy 
The freak is over, 



* Sep, in Chaucer and t)ie elder Poet-,, tli 
honors formerly paid to ihis tiuvvjr. 



The shape will vanish — and behold 
A silver shield with boss of gold, 
That spreads itself some faery bold 
In light to cover. 

I see thee glittering from afar — 
And then thou art a pretty star ; 
Nt)t quite so fair as many are 

In heaven above thee ! 
Yet like a star with glittering crest. 
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ;-'- 
May i^eace come never to his nest 

Who shall reprove thee ! 

Bright Floiver ! for by that name at last, 
Wiien all my reveries are past, 
I call thee, and to that cleave fast. 

Sweet silent creature 1 
That breath'st with me in sun and air, 
Do thou, as thou art wor.t, repair 
My heart with gladness, and a share 

Of thy meek nature ! 
iSo;. 



THE GREEN LINNET. 

liENfiATii these fruit-tree boughs that shetl 
Tlijir snow-white blossoms on my head 
With brij'.iitest sunshine round mj snread 

Of ;~pring's unclouded weatlier. 
In this sequestered nook how sweet 
To sit upon my orchard-seat ! 
And birds and flowers once more to greet. 

My last year's friends together. 

One have I marked, the happiest guest 
In all this covert of the blest : 
Hail to Thee, far above the rest 

In joy of voice and pinion ! 
Thou, Lmnet ! in thy green array, 
Pr> sidmg Spirit here to-day, 
I >ost lend tlie revels of the May ; 

And this is thy dominion. 

\Vhile birds, and butterflies and fiowers, 
M.ike all one band of paramours. 
Thou, ranging up and down the bovvers, 

Art sole in thy employment : 
A Life, a Presence like the Air, 
Stuttering thv gladness without care 
Too blest with any one to pair; 

Thyself thy own enjoyment. 

Amid yon tuft of hazel trees, 
'i'h at twinkle to the gusty breeze, 
ii-.hold him perched in ecstacies, 
Yet seeming still to hover ; 



POEMS OF THE FAXCY. 



u; 



There ! where the flutter of his wings 
Upon liis back and body flings 
Sliadows and sunny ghmmenngs, 
That cover him ail over. 

My dazzled sight he oft deceives, 
A biutiier of the dancing leaves , 
Then Hits, and from the cottage eaves 

fours forth his song in gushes , 
As 11 by that exultmg strain 
He mucked and treated with disdain 
'1 he voiceless Form he choose to feign, 
VVliile fluttering in the bushes. 
1S03. 



X. 

TO A SKY-LARK. 

Up with me! up with me into the clouds : 
For thy song, Lark, is strong ; 

Up with mc, up with me into the clouds ! 
Singing, singing, 

U'lth clouds and sky about thee ringing. 
Lift me, guide me till I find 

That spot which seems so to thy mind ! 

I have walked through wildernesses d-eary 

And to-day my heart is weary ; 

Ha 1 ( now the wins^s of a Faery, 

Up to thee would 1 fly. 

'I'heve is madness about thee, ana joy 

divine 
In tliat song of thine; 
I.ilt me, guide me high and high 
i u thy banqueting-place in the sky. 

Joyous as morning 
Thou art laughing and scorning : 
Tliou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest. 
And, tliougli little troubled with sloth, 
Drunken Lark! tliou vvould'st be loth 
■Jo be such a traveller as L 
1 l.ippy, happy Liver, 

W.tli a soul as stron^ as a mountain river 
Pouring out praise to the almighty Giver, 
Yij and jollity be with us both ! 

Alas ! my journey, rugged and uneven. 
Through prickly moors or dusty ways must 

wind; 
But hearing thee, or others of thy kind, 
As full of gladness and as free of heaven, 
1, with my fate contented, will plod on. 
And hope for higher raptures, when life's 

day is done. 
1S05. 



XI. 



TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.* 

Pa NSI lis, lilies, kingcups, daisies. 
Let them live upon their praises \ 
Long as there's a sun that sets. 
Primroses will have their glory ; 
Long as there are violets. 
They will have a place in story : 
There's a flower that shall be mine. 
'Tis the little Celandine. 

Eyes of some men travel far 
For the finding of a star ; 
Up and down the heavens they go 
Men that keep a mighty rout 1 
Pni as great as they, I trow. 
Since the day 1 found thee out, 
Little Flower !— I'll make a stir, 
Like a sage astronomer. 

Modest, yet withal an Elf 
liokl, and lavish of thyself; 
Since v/e needs must first have nu' 
J have seen thee, high and low, 
Thirty years or more, and yet 
'Twas a face 1 did not know ; 
Thou hast now, go where I may, 
Fifty greetings in a day. 

Ere a leaf is on a bush, 
In the time before the thrush 
Has a thought alx)Ut her nest, 
Tliou wilt come with half a call, 
Spreading out thy glossy breast 
Like a careless Prodigal ; 
Telling tales about the sun, 
WhenWe've little warmth, or none 

Poets, vain men in their mood I 
Travel witli the multitude : 
Never heed them ; I aver 
That tl-.ey all are wanton wooers; 
But the thrifty ct)ttagcr, 
Who stirs littie out of doors, 
joys to spy thee near her home : 
Spring is coming. Thou art come! 

Comfort have thou of thy meiit> 
Kindly, unassuming Spirit ! 
Careless of thy neighborhood, 
Thou dost show thy pleasant fact 
On the moor, and in the wood, 
In the lane ;--therc's not a place, 
Howsoever mean it be. 
But 'tis good enough for thee. 



* Common Pile wort. 



148 



POEMS OF THE FANCY 



111 befall the yellow flowers, 
Children of the tlanng liuurs ! 
Buttercups, that will be .seen, 
Whether we will see or no ; 
Others, too, of lofty mien , 
They have done as worldlings do, 
Taken praise that should be thine, 
Little, humble Celandine 1 

Prophet of delight and mirth, 
Ill-requited upon earth ; 
Herald of a mighty band, 
Of a joyous train ensuing, 
Serving at my heart's command, 
Tasks that are no tasks renewing, 
I will sing, as doth behove, 
Hymns in praise of what 1 love 1 
1803. 



TO THE SAME FLOWER. 

Pleasures newly found are sweet 

When they lie about our feet ; 

February last, my heart 

First at sight of thee was glad ; 

All unheard of as thou art, 

Thou must needs, 1 think, have had, 

Celandine! and long ago. 

Praise of which 1 nothing know. 

I have not a doubt but he, 
Wliosoe'er the man might be, 
Who the fiist witii pointed rays 
(Workman worthy to be sainted) 
Set the sign-board in a blaze, 
Wlien the rising sun he painted, 
Took the fancy from a glance 
At thy glittering countenance. 

Soon as gentle breezes bring 
News of winter's vanishing. 
And the children build their bowers, 
Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould 
All about with full-blown flowers, 
Tliick as sheep in shepherd's fold! 
W itli tiie proudest thou art there, 
Mantling in the tiny square. 

Often have T sighed to measure 
By myself a lonely pleasure, 
Sighed to tliink. 1 read a book, 
Only read, perhaps, bv nv: ; 
Yet I long could overlook 
Thy bright coronet and Th ^e, 
And thy arch and wily wav>., 
And thy store of other praise. 



Blithe of heart, from week to wotk 
Thou dt)st play at hide-and-beek ; 
While the patient primrose sit* 
Like a beggar in the cold, 
Thou, a flower of wiser wits, 
Slipp'st into thy sheltering hold; 
Liveliest of the vernal train 
W hen we are all out again. 

Drawn by what peculiar spell, 
By what charm of sight of smell, 
Does the dim-eyed curious Bee, 
Laboring for her waxen cells, 
Fondly settle upon Thee, 
Prized above all buds and bells 
Opening daily at thy side. 
By the season multiplied ? 

'I'hou art not beyond the moon, 
iJLit a thing " beneaih our sliuon:" 
Let tiie bold discovered thrid 
In ills bark *:he polar sea ; 
Kear who will a pyramid; 
i'r.iise it is enough for me, 
If there be but three or four 
Who will love my little Flower. 
1803. 



XIII. 

THE SEVEN SISTERS', 

OR, 

THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE. 

I. 

Seven Daughters had Lord Avchibalii, 

All cliildreu of one mother: 

You could not say in one short day 

What love they bore each other. 

A garland, of seven lilies, wrought ! 

Seven Sisters that together dwell ; 

But he, bold Knight as ever fought, 

Their father took of them no thought, 

He loved the wars so well. 

Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully. 

The solitude of Binnorie ! 

II. 

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind. 

And from the shores of Erin, 

Across the wave, a Kover brave 

To Binnorie is steering : 

Right onward to the Scottish stranc 

The gallant ship is b.orne ; 

The warriors leap upon the land. 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



149 



And hark ! tlie Leader of the band 
Hath blown his bugle horn. 
Sing, niournlully, oh ! moiunfully, 
The solitude of Binnorie. 

III. 

Beside a grotto of their own, 

With boughs above then) closing, 

The Seven are laid, and in the shade 

They lie like fawns reposing. 

lUU now, upstarting with aftrighi 

At noise ot man and steed, 

Away they fly to left, to right — 

Dt your fair household, Father-knight, 

Molhinks you take small heed ! 

.^nv^, mournfully, oh! mournfully 

i iivi solitude of '-^innorie. 



Away the seven fair Campbells fly, 

And, over hill and hollow. 

With menace proud, and insult loud, 

The youthful Ivovers follow. 

Cried they, '' Your Father loves to roam 

Enough for him to find 

The empty house when he comes home ; 

For us your yellow ringlets comb, 

For us be fair and kind ! " 

Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 

The soUtude of Binnorie. 



Some close behind, some side by side, 

Like clouds in stormy weather ; 

They run, and cry, " Nay, let us die. 

And let us die together." 

A lake was near ; the shore was steep 

There never foot had been ; 

They ra-n, and with a desperate leap 

Together plunged into the deep, 

Nor ever more were seen. 

.Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 

The solitude of Binnorie. 



The stream that flows out of the lake. 
As through the glen it rambles, 
Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone, 
I'or those seven lovely Campbells. 
Se/en little Islands, green and bare. 
Have risen from out the deep: 
The fishers say, those sisters fair. 
By faeries all are buried there. 
And there together sleep. 
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfullyj 
The solitude of Binnorie, 



Who fancied what a pretty sight 
This rock would be if edged around 
With living snow-drops ? circlet briglit I 
How glorious to this orchard-ground 1 
Wiio loved tiie little Rock, and set 
Upon its head this coronet? 

Was it the humor of a child? 

Or rather of some gentle maid, 

Whose brows, the day that she was styled 

The shepherd-queen, were thus arrayed ? 

Of m.4n mature, or niatron sage? 

Or old man toying with his age ? 

I asked— 'twas whispered : The device 
To each and all might well bclcug : 
It IS the Spirit of Paradise 
That prompts such work, a Sjiir.t strong, 
That gives to all the self-same bent 
Where life is wise and innocent. 

IS03. N 



THE REDBREAST CHASING THE 
BUTTFRFLY 

Art thou the biiu whom Man loves best, 
The pious birdVith the scarlet breast, 

Our little English Robin ; 
The bird that comes about cur doors 
When Autumn-winds are sobbing ? 
Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors ? 

Their Thomas in Finland, 

And Russia far inland ? 
Hie bird, that by some name or other 
All men who know thee call their brother, 
The darling of children and men? 
Could Father Adam open his eyes 
And see this sight beneath the skies, 
He'd wish to close them again. 
—If the Butterfly knew but his friend, 
Hither his flight he would bend ; 
And find his way to me, 
Under the branches of the tree: 
In and out, he darts about ; 
Can this be t'l.e bird, to man so good, 
That, after their bewildering 
Covered v>'ith leaves the little children, 

So painiujly in the wood. 
What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'sl 
pursue 

A beautiful creature. 
That is gentle by nature? 



^5^ 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



Beneath '^h'^ summer sky 

Fiom flo 'er to flower let him fly ; 

'Tis all that he wishes to do. 

The cheerer Thou of our indoor sadness, 

He is the friend of our summer gl.iuness : 

What hinders, then, that ye should be 

Playmates in tiie sunny weather, 

And fly about in the air together ! 

His beautiful wing« in crimson are drest, 

A crimson as bright as thine own : 

VVould'st thou be happy in thy nest, 

O pious Bird! whom man loves best, 

Love him, or leave him alone! 



SONG 



FOR THE SPINNING 
WHEEL. 



FOUNDED UPON A BELIEF PREVALENT 
AMONG THE PASTORAL VALES OF WEST- 
MORELAND. 

Swiftly turn (he murmuring wheel ! 
Night has brought the welcome hour 
Wiien the weary fingers feel 
Help, as if from fairy power ; 
Dewy night o'ershades the ground ; 
Turn the swift wheel round and round 1 
Now, beneath the starry sky, 
Couch the widely-scattered sheep ; 
Ply the pleasant labor, ply ! 
For the spindle, while they sleep, 
Runs with speed more smooth and fine, 
Gatliering up a trustier line. 
Short-lived likings may be bred 
By a glance from fickle eyes ; 
Hut true love is like the thread 
Wliich the kindly wool supplies, 
Wlien the flocks areall at rest 
Sleeping on the mountain's breast, 
1812, 



HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 

FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS. 

«' Who but hails the sight with pleasure 
When the wings of genius rise 
Their ability to measure 
With great enterprise ; 



But in man was ne'er such daring 
As yon Hawk exhibits, pairing 
His brave spirit with the war in 
The stormy skies ! 

Mark him, how his power he uses, 
Lays it by, at will resumes! 
Mark, ere for his haunt he chooses 

■ Clouds and utter glooms ! 
There, he wheels in downward maze*) 
Sunward now his flight he raises, 
Catches fire, as seems, and blazes 
With uninjured plumes 1 " — 

ANSWER. 

" Stranger, 'tis no act of courage 
Which aloft thou dost discern ; 
No bold bird gone forth to forage 

'Mid the tempest stern ; 
But such mockery as the nations 
See, when public perturbations 
Lift men from their native stations 

Like yon Tuft of fern ; 

Such it is ; the aspiring creature 
Soaring on undaunted wing, 
(So you fancied) is by nature 

A dull helpless thin^,. 
Cry and withered, light and yellow ;■ — 
TJuit to be the tempest's fellow ! 
Wait — and you shaJl see how hollow 

Its endeavoring ! " 
1817. 



ON SEEING A NEEDLECASE IN 
THE FORM OF A HARP. 

the work of e. m. s. 

Frowns are on every Mnso's face, 
Repr iaches from their lips are sent, 

That mimicry should thus disgrace 
The noble Instrument. 

A very Harp in all but size ! 

Needles for strings in apt gradation 
Minerva's self would stigmatize 

The unclassic profanation. 

Even her owji needle that subdued 

Arachne's rival spirit. 
Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mocx^ 

Such honor could not merit. 

And this, too, from the Laureate's Child, 

A living l«rd of melody ! 
How will her Sire be reconciled 

To the refined indignity ? 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



^5' 



I spake, when whisjjered a low voice, 

" Bard ! moderate your ire ; 
Spirits of all degrees rejoice 

In presence of the lyre 

The Minstrels of Pygmean bands, 
Dwarf Genii, moonlight-loving Fays, 

Have shells to fit their tiny hands 
And suit their slender lays. 

Soma, still more delicate of ear, 
Have lutes (believeTny words) 

Whose framework is of gossamer, 
While sunbeams are the chords. 

Gay Sylphs this miniature will court, 
Made vocal by their brushing wings, 

And sullen Gnomes will learn to sport 
Around its pohshed strings ; 

Whence strains to love-sick maiden dear, 
Wliile in her lonely bower she tries 

To cheat the thought she cannot cheer, 
By fanciful embroideries. 

Trust, angry Bard ! a knowing Sprite, 
Nor think the Harp her lot deplores .; 
Though 'mid the stars the Lyre shine 
bright, 
Love stoops as fondly as he soars." 
1827. 



TO A LADY, 

W ANSWER TO A REQUEST THAT I WOULU 
WRITE HER A POEM UPON SOME DRAW- 
INGS THAT SHE HAD MADE OF I'LOWEl.S 
IN THE ISLAND OK MADEIRA. 

Fair Lady ! ^an I sing of flowers 

That in Madeira bloom and fade, 
I who ne'er sate witliin their bowers. 

Nor through their sunny lawns have 
strayed .-' 
How they in sprightly dance are worn 

By Shepherd-groom or May-day queen, 
Or holy festal pomps adorn, 

These eyes have never seen 

Yet tho' to me the pencil's art 

No like remembrances can give, 
Your portraits still may reach the heart 

And there lor gentle pleasure live, 
While Fancy ranging with free scope 

Shall on some lovely Alien set 
A name with us endearea to hope, 

To peace, or fund regret. 



Still as we look with nicer care. 

Some new resemblance we may trace : 
A Hearfs-ease will perhaps be there, 

A Spccdu-ell may not want its place. 
And so may we, with charmed mind 

Beholding what your skill has wrought, 
Another Star-of-Bethlchcm find, 

A new Forget-me-not. 

From earth to heaven with motion fleet, 

From heaven to earth our thoughts v. U 
pass, 
A Holy-thistle here we meet 

And there a ShephcrWs weatJier-glass i 
And haply some familiar name 

Slia'll grace the fairest, sweetest plant 
Whose presence clieers the drooping lianif 

Of English Emigrant. 

Gazing she feels its power beguile 

Sad thoughts, and breathes with easiei 
breath ; 
Alas ! tiiat meek, that tender smile 

Is l^it a iiarbinger of death ; 
And pinnting with a feeble hand 

She says, in faint words by sigh-, broken, 
Bear for me to my native land 

This precious Flower, true love's las! 
token. 



Glad sight wherever new with old 

Is joined through some dear honieborn tic; 

The life of all that we behold 

Depends upon that mystery. 

Vain is the glory of the sky. 

The beauty vain of fitld and grovt, 

llnless, while with admiring -;ye 

We gaze, we also learn to love. 



XXI. 

THE CONTRAST. 

THE PARROT AND THE WREN. 



Within her gilded cage confined, 
I saw a dazzling Belle, 
A Parrot of that famous kind 
Whose name is Nonpareil. 

Like beads of glossy jet her eyes; 
And, smoothed by Nature's skill. 
With pearl or gU-aming agate vioS 
Her finely-curved bilL 



152 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



Her plumy mantle's living hues, 
In mass opposed to mass, 
Outshine the splendor that inhues 
The robes of pictured glass. 

And, sooth to say, an apter Mate 
Did never ten»pt the choice 
Of feathered Thing most delicate 
In figure and in voice. 

But, exiled from Australian bowers, 
And singleness her lot, 
She trills her song with tutored powers. 
Or mocks each casual note. 

No more of pity for regrets 
V/ith which she may have striven ! 
Now but in wantonness she frets, 
Or spite, if cause be given ; 

Arch, volatile, a sportive bird 

By social .glee inspired ; 

Ambitious to be seen or heard. 

And pleased to be admired ! 

II. p 

This moss-lined shed, £;reen, soft, and dry, 
Harbors a self-contented Wren, 
Not shunning man's abode, though shy, 
Ahnost as thought itself, of human Icen, 

Strange places, coverts unendeared. 
She never tried ; the very nest 
In which this Child of Spring was reared, 
Is warmed, thro' winter, by het feathery 
breast 

To the bleak winds she sometimes gives 
A sljntier unexpected strain : 
Proof that the hermitess still lives. 
Though she appear not, and be sought in 

vain. 
Say. Dora ! tell me, by yon placid moon 
If called to choose between the tavored pan, 
Which would you be, — the bird of the saloon, 
By lady-fingers tended with nice care, 
Caressed, applauded, upon dainties fed, 
Or Nature's Darkling of this mossy shed ? 
1825. 



XXII. 

THE DANISH BOY. 

A FRAGMENT. 



Between two sister moorland rills 
There is a spot that seems to lie 
Sacred to flowerets of the hills, 
And sacred to the sky. 



And in this smootli and open dell 
There is a teinpeststrcken tree j 
A corner-stone by jiglitning cut, 
The last stone of a lonely hut 
And in tins dell you see 
A thing no etorm can e'er destroy. 
The shadow of a Danish Boy. 



In clouds above, the lark is heard. 
But drops not here to earth for rest ; 
Within this lonesome nook the bird 
Did never build her nest. 
No beast, no bird hath here his home; 
Bees, wafted on the breezy air, 
Pass high above tliose fragrant bells 
To other flowers : — to other dells 
Their burthens do they bear ; 
The Danish Boy walks here alone 
Tlie lovely dell is all his own. 



A Spirit ot noon-day is he; 

Yet seems a form of flesh and bioodi 

Nor piping shepherd shall he be. 

Nor herd-boy of the wood. 

A regal vest of fur he wears. 

In color like a raven's wing ; 

It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew; 

But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue 

As budding pines in spring; 

His helmet has a vernal grace. 

Fresh as the bloom upon his fac?. 



A harp is from his shoulder slung ; 
Resting the harp upon his knee. 
To words of a forgotten tongue, 
lie suits its melody 
Of flocks upon the neighboring hill 
He is the darling and the joy ; 
And often, wlien no cause appears, 
'J"he mountain-pomes prick tlieir ear»^ 
— Tliey hear the Danish Boy, 
While in the dell he sings alone 
Beside the tree and corner-stone. 



There sits he ; in his face you spy 

No trace of a ferocious air. 

Nor ever was a cloudless sky 

So steady or so fair. 

The lovely Danish Boy is 1^' st 

.And happy in his floweiy cove 

From bloody deeds his thoe-ghts are Ta: 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



'53 



And yet he warbles son!:;s of war, 
That seem like sonc;s of love. 
For calm and qcntlc is his mien ; 
Like a dead Boy he is serene. 
1799. 



S O N G ^ 

FOR THE WANDERING JEW. 

Though the torrents from their fountains 
Koar down many a craggy steep. 
Vet tliey find among the mountains 
Resting-places calm and deep. 

Clouds that love through air to liasten, 
Ere he storm its fury stills, 
Helmet-like themselves will fasten 
On the beads of towering hills. 

What, if through the frozen centre 
Of the Alps the Chamois bound, 
Yet he has a home to enter 
In some nook of cliosen ground : 

And the Sea-horse, though the ocean 
Yield him no domestic cave, 
Slumbers without sense of motion, 
Couched upon the rocking wave. 
If on windy days the Raven 
Gambol like a dancing skiff. 
Not the less she loves her haven 
In the bosom of the cliff. 

The fleet Ostrich, till day closes, 
Vagrant over desert sands. 
Brooding on her eggs reposes 
Wlien chill night that care demands. 

Day and night my toils redouble. 
Never nearer to the goal ; 
Night and day, I feel the trouble 
Of tlie Wanderer in my soul. 
iSoo. 



XXIV. 

STRAY PLEASURES. 

•' Pleasure is spread throus;h the earth 

In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall 
find?'' 

By their floating mill. 
That lies dead and still. 
Behold yon Prisoners three. 
The Miller witli two Dames, on the breast 
of the Thames} 



TIic platform is small, but gives room fo« 

them all ; 
And they're dancing merrily. 

From the shore comes the notes 
To their mill where it floats. 
To their house and their mill tethered fast 
To the small wooden isle where their work 

to beguile. 
They from morning to even take whatevei 

is given ; — 
And many a blithe day they have past. 

In sight of the spires, 

All alive with the fires 
Of the sun going down to his rest, 
In tlie bioaci open eye of the solitary sky, 
They dance,- -there are three, as jocund as 

free, 
Wkile they dance on the calm river's breast. 

Man and Maidens wheel, 
They tiiemselves make the reel, 
And their music's a prey which they seize ; 
It plays not for them,— what matter? 'tis 

theirs ; 
And if they had care, it has scattered their 

cares. 
While they dance, crying, " Long as ye 
plc.^se ! '' 

They dance not for me, 
Yet mine is their glee! 
Thus pleasure is spread through the earth 
In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall 

f^nd'; 
Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly 

kind. 
Moves all nature to gladness and mirth. 

The showers of the spring 
Rouse the birds, and they sing ; 
If the wind do but stir for his proper delight, 
Each leaf, that and this, his neighbor will 

kiss ; 
Each wave, one and t'other, speeds aftei 

his brother ; 
They are happy, for that is their right J 
1 806. 



XXV. 

THE PILGRIM'S DREAM ; 

OR, THE STAR AND THE GLOW-WORM. 

A Pilgrim, when the summer day 
Mad closed upon his weary way. 
A lodging beggcfl b?neatli a castle's roof j 
But him the haughty Warder spurnad ; 



'51 



FOE A/6- OF THE FANCY. 



And from the gate th ■ Pilgrim turned, 
To seek such covert as the Held 
Or heath-bcsprinklcd copse might yield, 
Or lofty wood, shower-proof. 

He paced along ; and, pensively, 

Halting beneath a sliady tree, 

Whose moss-grown root might serve for 

couch or seat, 
Fixed on a Star his upward eye ; 
Tlien, from the tenant of the sky 
He turned, and watched with kindred look, 
A Glow-worifi, in a dusky nook. 
Apparent at his feet. 

The murmur of a neighboring stream, 
Induced a soft and slumbrous dream, 
A pregnant dream, within wiiose shadowy 

bounds 
He recognized the earth-born Star, 
And T/iat which glittered from afar ; 
And (strange to witness!) from the frame 
Of tlie ethereal Orb, there came 
Intelligible sounds. 

Much did it taunt the humble Light 
'I'hat now, when day was flvxl, and night 
Husiied the dark earth, fast closing weary 

eyes, 
A very reptile could presume 
To show her taper in the gloom. 
As if in livalship with One 
Who sate a ruler on his throne 
Erected in tlie skies. 

" Exalted Star! " the Worm replied, 
" Abate this unbecoming pride. 
Or with a less uneasy Justre sinne; 
Thou shrink'st as momently thy rays 
Are mastered by the breathing haze; 
While neither mist, nor thickest clnud 
That shapes in heaven its murky shroud, 
Hath power to injure mine. 

Out not I or this do I aspire 

To nii^tch the spark of local fire, 

'J'li.it at my will burns on the dewy lawn, 

With thy acknowledged glories; — No! 

V^et, thus upbraided, I may show 

What favors do attend me here, 

Till, like thyself, I disappear 

Before the purple dawn." 

When this in modest guise was said, 
Across the welkin seemed to spread 
^ boding sound — for aught but sleep unfit! 
Hi'ls quaked, the rivers backward ran ; 
That Star, so proud of late, looked wan ; 



And reeled with visionary stir 
In the blue depth, like Lucifer 
Cast headlong to the pit I 

Fire raged ; and, when the spangled floor 

Of ancient ether was no more. 

New heavens succeeded by the drean 

brought forth : 
And all the happy Souls that rode 
Transfigured through that fresh abode 
Had heretofore, in humble trust. 
Shone meekly mid their native dust, 
The Glow-worms of the earth ! 

This knowledge, from an angel's voice 
Proceeding, made the heart rejoice 
Of Him who slept upon the open lea : 
Waking at morn he murmured not ; 
And, till life's journey closed, the spot 
Was to the Pilgrim's soul endeared. 
Where by that dream he had been cheered 
Beneath the shady tree. 
Ibi8. 



THE POET AND THE CAGED TUR 
TLEDOVE. 

As often as I murmur here 

My half-formed melodies, 
Straight from her osier mansion near, 

The Turtledove replies : 
Though silent as a leaf before. 

The captive promptly coos ; 
Is it to teach her own soft lore, 

Or second my weak Muse? 

I rather think, the gentle Dove 

Is murmuring a repn of, 
Displeased that I from lays of love 

Have dared to keep aloof ; 
That I, a Bard of hill and dale. 

Have caroll'd, fancy free. 
As if nc r dove nor nightingale, 

Had heart or voice for me. 

If such thy meaning, O forbear, 

Sweet bird ! to do me wrong ; 
Love, blessed Love, is everywhere 

The spirit of my song : 
'Mid grove, and by the calm fireside, 

Love animates my lyre — 
That coo again ! — 'tis not to chide« 

I feel, but to mspire. 
1830, 



POEMS OF 7 HE FANCY. 



55 



XXVII. 

A WREN'S NEST. 

Among the dwellings framed hv birds 
In htid or forest vvitii nice care, 

Is none tiiat with thr little Wren's 
In sniigness may compare. 

No door the tenement reciuires, 
And seldom needs a labored roof; 

"V'<-t IS It to th ■ fiercest sun 
impervioiib, and storm-proof. 

So warm, so lieatitiful withal, 

In perfect fitness for its aim, 
That to the Kind by special grace 

Their instinct surely came. 

And when for their abodes they seek 

An opportune recess, 
The hermit has no finer eye 

For shadowy ciuietness. 

These find, 'mid ivied abbey-walls, 

A canopy in jomc still nook ; 
Others are pent-housed by a brae 

That overhangs a brook. 

There to the brooding bird her mate 
Warbls by fits his low clear scjng ; 

And by the busy streamlet both 
Are sung to all day long. 

Or in sequestered lanes they build, 
Where, till the flitting bird's return, 

llcr eggs within the nest repose, 
Like relics in an urnr 

But still, where general choice is good, 

There is a better and a best ; 
And, among fairest objects, some 

Arj fairer than the rest ; 

This, one of those small builders proved 
In a green covert, where, from out 

The forehead of a pollard oak. 
The leafy antlers sprout ; 

For She who planned the mossy lodge, 

Mistrusting her evasive skill. 
Had to a Primrose looked for aid 

Her wishes to fulfil. 

High on the trunk's projecting brow, 
And fixed ni infant's span above 

The budding fiowers, peeped forth the nest, 
The prettiest of the grove '. 



rhe treasure proudly did I show 

i o some whose minds, without disdain 

Can turn to little things ; l)ut once 
Looked up for it .n vain . 

'Tis gone — a ruthless spoiler's prey, 
W ho heeds not beauty, love, or song, 

'Tis gone ! (so seemed it; and we grieved 
Indignant at the wrong. 

Just three days after, passing by 
Jn clearer light, the moss-built cell 

i saw, espied its shaded mouth ; 
And felt that all was well. 

The Primrose for a veil had spread 
The largest of her upright leaves; 

And thus, for piup-oses benign, 
A simple flower deceives. 

Concealed from friends who might disturb 

Thy quiet with no ill intent. 
Secure from evil eyes and hands 

On barbarous plunder bent. 

Rest, l\Iother-bird ! and when thy young 
Take flight, and thou art free to loam, 

When withered is the guardian lM(;wer, 
And empty thy late home. 

Think how }^e prospered, thou and thine, 

Amid the un violated grove 
Housed near the growing Primrose-tuft 

In foresight, or in love. 



XXVIII 

LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 

You call it "Love lies bleeding,"- so you 

may, 
Though the red Flower, not prostrate, only 

droops. 
As we have seen it liere from day to day, 
From month to month, life passing not 

away : 
A flower how rich in sadness ! Even thus 

stoops, 
(Sentient by Grecian sculpture's marvellous 

power) 
Thus leans, with hanging brow and body 

bent 
Earthward in uncomplaining languishment 
The dying Gladiator. So sad l' lowei ! 
('Tis Fancy guides me willing to be Icd^ 
Tliough by a slender thread.) 



156 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



So rlrociped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew 
0( liis dealh-vvouiul, when he from innocent 

air 
Thf i^entlcst l)reath of resi;;natinn dicw ; 
While Vcmis in a jiassion of dcsjiair 
Rent, wecpinc; over him, her golden hair 
bpanijlcd with drops of. that celestial 

shower. 
Slie suffered, as Immortals sometimes do; 
But panics more lasting far that Lover 

knew 
Who first, weighed down by scorn, in some 

lone bower 
Hid press this semblance of unpitied smart 
Into the service of his constant heart. 
His own dejection, dowr.i .ist Flower ! could 

share 
With thine, and gave the mournful name 

which thou wilt ever bear. 



XXIX. 

COMPANION TO THE FOREGOING. 

Never enlivened with the liveliest rav 

That fosters growth or checks or che:?rs 
decay. 

Nor by the heaviest rain-drops more de- 
prest. 

This Flower, that first appeared as sum- 
mer's guest. • 

Preserves her beauty 'mid autumnal leaves 

And to her mournful habits fondly cleaves. 

When files of stateliest plants have ceased 
to bloom, 

One after one submitting to their doom, 

Wlu^n lier coevals each and all are fled. 

Wiiat keeps her thus reclined upon her 
lonesome bed ? 

The old mythologists, more impress'd 

than we 
Of this late day by character in tree 
Or herb, th.it claimed peculiar sympathy, 
Or by the silent lapse of fountain clear, 
Or with the language of the viewless air 
By bird or beast made vocal, sought a cause 
To solve the mystery, not in Nature's laws 
But in Man's fortunes. Hence a thousand 

tales 
Sung to the plaintive lyre in Grecian vales. 
Nor doubt that something of their spirit 

swayed 
The fancy-stricken youth or heart-sick 

Maid, 



Who, while each stood companionless and 

eyed 
This undeparting Flower in crimson dyed, 
Thoug' t of a wound which death is slow to 

cm-e, 
A fate that has endured and will endure, 
And, patience coveting yet passion feeding, 
Called the dejected Lingerer Love lia 

Heeding. 



RURAL ILLUSIONS. 

Sylph was it ? or a Bird more bright 

Than those of fabulous stock ? 
A second darted by ; — and lo 1 

Another of the flock, 
Through sunshine flitting irom the bough 

To nestle in the rock. 
Transient deception ! a gay freak 

Of April's mimicries ! 
Those brilliant strangers, hailed with joy 

Among '.'lie budding trees. 
Proved last year's leaves, pushed from the 
sjn-ay 

To Irolic on the breeze. 

Maternal Flora 1 show thy face, 

And let thy hand be seen. 
Thy hand here sprinkling tiny flowers, 

That, as they touch the green, 
Take root (so seems it) and look up 

In lienor of their Q^uecn. 
Vet, sooth, those little starry specks, 

That not in vain aspired 
To be confounded with live growths, 

Most dainty, most admired. 
Were only blossoms dropjicd from twig8 

Of their own offspring tired. 

Not such the World's illusive shows ; 

Her wingless flutterings. 
Her blossoms which, though shed, outbrave 

The floweret as it springs. 
For the undeceived, smile as they may, 

Are melancholy things: 
But gentle Nature plays her part 

With ever-varying wiles. 
And transient feignings with plain trutb 

So well she reconciles, 
That those fond Idlers most are pleased 

Whom oftenest she beguiles,. 



PORMS OF THE PA JVC V. 



tS7 



THE KITTEN AND FALLING 
LEAVES. 

That way \ook, my Infant, In! 

What a pretty baby-show ! 

i-ee the Kitten on the wall, 

J: porting with the leaves that fall, 

Withered leaves — one — two— and three- 

I'rom tlie lofty elder-tree ! 

Tiirough the calm and frosty air 

Of this morning bright and fair, 

Eddying round and round they sink 

iriol'tly, slowly ; one might think 

j mm the motions that are made, 

P.very little leaf conveyed 

i ylph or Fairy hither tending,— 

To tliis lower world descending, 

Each invisible and mute, 

In liis wavering parachute. 

lint the Kitten, how she starts, 

Crouches, stretches, paws, and dartb ! 

First at one, and then its fellow 

] ust as light and just as yellow ; 

Tliere are many now — now one — 

Kow they stop and there are none: 

What intenseness of desire 

In her upward eye of fire ! 

W.th a tiger-leap half way 

Now she meets tiie coming prey, 

Lets it go as fast, and then 

Has it in her power again : 

Now she works with three or four, 

Like an Indian conjurer ; 

Ouick as he in feats of art. 

Far beyond in joy of heart. 

Were her antics played in the eye 

Of a thousand standers-by, 

Clapping hands with shout and stare, 

Wiiat would little Tabby care 

r~or the plaudits of the cnnvd 1 

Over happy to be proud, 

Over wealthy in the treasure 

Of her own exceeding pleasure ! 

'Tis a pretty baby-treat ; 
Nor, I deem, for me unmeet; 
Here, for neither Babe nor me. 
Other play-mate can I see. 
Of the countless living things, 
Tliat with stir of feet and wings 
(In the sun or under shade. 
Upon bough or grassy blade) 
And with busy revcllings. 
Chirp and song, and inurnmrings, 



Made tliis orchard's narrow space. 
And tills vale so blithe a place. 
Multitudes are swept away 
Never more to breathe the day : 
Some are sleeping ; some in bands 
Travelled into distant lands ; 
Others slunk to moor and woorl. 
Far from human neighborhood ; 
And, among the Kinds that keep 
With us closer fellowship. 
With us openly abide. 
All have laid their mirth aside. 

Where is he that giddy Sprite, 
Blu>cap, with his colors bright, 
Who was blest as bird could be, 
Feeding in the apple-tree ; 
Made such wanton spoil and rout, 
Turning blossoms inside out ; 
Hung — head pointing towards the ground- 
Fluttered, jKnched, into a round 
Bound himself, and then unbound: 
Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin ! 
Prettiest Tumbler ever seen ! 
Light of heart and light of limb; 
What is now become of Him ? 
Lambs, that through the mountains wen! 
Frisking, bleating merriment, 
When the year was in its prime, 
They are sobered by this time. 
If you look to vale or hill. 
It you listen, all is still, 
Save a little neighboring rill, 
That from out the rocky ground 
Strikes a solitary sound. 
Vainly glitter hill and ])lain, 
And the air is calm in vain ; 
Vainly Morning spreads the lure 
Of a sky serene and pure; 
Cieature none can she decoy 
Into open sign of joy : 
Is it that they have a fear 
Of the dreary season near .'' 
Or that other pleasures be 
Sweeter even than gayety .? 

Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell 
In the impenetrable cell 
Of the silent heart which Natur* 
Furnishes to every creature; 
Whatsoe'er we feel and know 
Too sedate for outward show. 
Such a light of gladness breaks, 
Pretty Kitten ! from thy freaks, — 
Spreads with such a living grace 
O'er my little Laura's face ; 
Yes, the sight so stirs and charms 
I Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms, 



rsS 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



1'hat almost I could repine 
lliat your transports are not mine, 
That I do not wholly fare 
Even as ye do, thouj^htless pair ! 
And I will have my careless season 
Sj/ite of melancholy reason, 
Will walk through life in such a way 
That, when time brings on decay, 
Now and then 1 may possess 
Hours of perfect gladsoniLnessv 
— Pleased by any random toy ; 
By a kitten's busy joy. 
Or an infant's laughing eye 
Sharing in the ecstasy ; 
I would fare like that or this. 
Find my wisdom in my bliss ; 
Keep the sprightly %o\\\ awake, 
And have faculties to take, 
Even from things by sorrow wrought, 
Matter for a jocund thought, 
Spite of care, and spite of grief. 
To gambol with Life's falling Leaf. 
J804. 



XXXII. 



ADDRESS TO MV INFANT DAUOTT- 
TERDORA, 

ON BEINH RfiMINDF-P THAT .SHE WAS A 
MONTH OLD THAT DAY, SHPrHMrEK 1 6, 

Hast thou then survived — 

Mild Offspring of infirm humanity, 
Meek Infant ! among all forlornest things 
The most forlorn — one life of that bright 

star, 
The second glory of the Heavens ? — Thou 

hast ; 
Already hast survived that great decay, 
That transformation through the wide earth 

felt. 
And by all nations. In that Being's sight 
From whom the Race of human kind pro- 
ceed, 
A thousand years are but as yesterday ; 
And one day's narrow circuit is to Him 
Not less capacious than a thousand years. 
But what is time .'' What outward glory ? 

neither 
A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend 
Through " heaven's eternal year."— Yet h;iil 

to Thee, 
Frail, feeble, Monthling! — by that name, 

niethinks, 



Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out 
Not idly. — Hadst thou been of Indian birth 
Couched on a casual 'oed of moss and leavt!^ 
And rudely canopied by leafy boughs, 
Or to the churlish elements exposed 
On the blank plains, — the coldness cf the 

night. 
Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful fr.ce 
Ot beauty, by the changing moon adorned, 
Would, with imperious admonition, then 
Have scored thine age, and punctually timed 
Thine infant history, on the minds ot those 
Who might have wandered with thee.— 

Mother's love. 
Nor less than mother's love in other breasts, 
Will, among us warm-clad and warmly 

housed, 
Do for thee what the finger of the heavens 
Doth all too often harshly execute 
F(jr thy luiblest coevals, amid wilds 
Where fancy hath small liberty to grace 
The affections, to exalt them or refine; 
And the maternal sympathy itself. 
Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie 
Of naked instinct, wound about the heart. 
Happier, far happier, is thy lot and ours! 
Even now — to solemnize thy helpless state, 
And to enliven in the mind's regard 
Thy passive beauty — parallels have risen, 
Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect. 
Within the region of a father's thoughts. 
Thee and thy mate and sister of the sky. 
And first ; — thy sinless progress, through a 

world 
By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed, 
Apt likeness bears to hers, through gathered 

clouds, 
Moving untouched in silver purity, 
A nd cheering oft-times their reluctant gloom. 
l''air are ye both, and both are free from 

stain : 
But thou, how leisurely thou fill'st thy horn 
With brightness ! leaving her to post along, 
;\nd range about, disquieted in change. 
And still impatient of the shape she wears. 
Once up, once down the hill, one journov, 

Babe, 
That will suffice thee ; and it seems that 

now 
Thou hast fore-knowledge that such task is 

thine ; 
Thou travellest so contentedly, and sleep'st 
In such a heedless peace. Alas I full sooa 
Hath this conception, grateful to behold. 
Changed countenance, like an object sullied 

o'er 
By breathing mist ; and tliine appears to be 



FOE MS OF THE FANCY! 



'59 



A mournful labor, wliile to her is given 

Hope, and a renovation without end. 

— That smile forbids the thought; for on 

thy face 
Smiles are beginning, like the beams of 

dawn, 
To shoot and circulate ; smiles have there 

been seen ; 
CrHnquil assurances, that Heaven supports 
The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers 
Thy loneliness, or shall those smiles be 

called 



Feelers of love, put forth as if to explore 
This untried world, and to prepare thy way 
'ill rough a strait passage intricate and dim* 
Such are they ; and the same are tokens, 

signs, 
Which, when the appointed season hath 

arrived, 
Joy, as her holiest language, shall adopt ; 
And Reason's godlike Power be proud to 

own. 
1804. 



THE WAGONER. 

"In Cairo's crowded streets 
The impatient Merchant, wondering, waits in vain, 
And Mecca saddens at the long delay." — Thomson 



TO CHARLES LAMB. ESQ. 
Mv Dkar Frienh, 

When I sent you, a tew weeks ago, the Tale of Peter Bell, you asked 
" wliy Thk Wa(.oner was not added '"—To say the truth, — from the higlier tone of imagina- 
tion, and the deeper touches of passion aimed at in the former, I apprehended, this little P.tte 
could not accompany it without disadvantage. In the year 1806, if 1 am not mistaken, Thh 
Wa(;onkk was read to yen in manuscript, and, as you have remembered it for so long a time, 
I am the more encouraged to hope that, since the localities on which the Poem partly depends 
did not prevent its being interesting to you, it may prove acceptable to others. Being therefore 
111 some measure the cause of its present appearance, you must allow me the gratification of in- 
cribing it to you ; in acknowledgment of the pleasure I have derived from your Writings, and 
with the high esteem with which I am very truly yours, 
Kydal Mounts May zo, 1819. William WoRDSWOKTH. 



CANTO FIRST. 

' lis spent— this burning day of June 1 

Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is steal- 
ing , 

Th.; buzzing dor-hawk, round and round, is 
wheeling,— 

That solitary bird 

Is all that can be heard 

In silence deeper far than that of deepest 
noon ! 

Confiding Glow-worms, 'tis a night 
Propitious to your earth-born light ! 
But, where the scattered stars are see 
In hazy straits the clouds between, 
Each, in his station twinkling not, 
Seems changed into a pallid spot. 
The mounJains against heaven's grave 
weight 



I Rise up, and grow to wondrous height 
The air, as in a lion's den, 

I Is close and hot ; — and now and then 
Comes a tired and sultry breeze 
With a haunting and a panting, 
Like the stifling of disease ; 
But the dews allay the heat. 
And the silence makes it sweet. 

Hush, there is some one on the stir I 
'Tis Benjamin the Wagoner ; 
Who long hath trod this toilsome way, 
j Companion of the night and day. 
I Tint far-off tinkling's drowsy cheer, 
i Mix'd with a faint yet grating sound 
I In a moment lost and found, 
I The Wain announces — by whose side 
j Along the banks of Kydal Mere 
I He paces on, a trusty Guide,— 
' Listen! you can scarcely hearl 



i6c 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



Hither he his course is bending ; — 
Now he leaves the lower ground, 
And up the craggy hill ascending 
Many a stop and" stay he makes, 
Many a breathing-fit he takes ;— 
Steep the way and wearisome, 
'/et all the while his whip is dumb ! 

The Horses have worked with right 
good-will, 
And so have gained the top of the hill ; 
He was patient, they were strong, 
And now they smoothly glide along, 
Kecovering breath, and pleased to win 
The praises of mild Benjamin. 
Heaven sliield him from mishap and snare ! 
But why so early witli tiiis prayer?— 
Is it for threatenings in the sky ? 
Or for some other danger nigh ? 
No ; none is near lum yet, though he 
he one of much infirmity ; 
For at the bottom of the brow. 
Where once the Dove and Olive-bough 
Offered a greeting of good ale 
'l"o a,ll who entered Grasmere Vale ; 
And called on him who must depart 
To leave it with a jovial heart ; 
'I'here, where the Dove and Olive-bough 
Once hung, a poet harbors now, 
A simple water-drinking Bard ; 
Why need our Hero then (though frail 
His best resolves) be on his guard ? 
He marches by, secure and bold ; 
Yet while he thinks on times of old. 
It seems that all looks wondrous cold ; 
He shrugs his shoulders, sliakes his head. 
And, for the honest folk within, 
It is a doubt with Benjamin 
Whether they be alive or dead ! 

Here is no danger, — none at all! 
Iieyond his wish he walks secure ; 
Fiut pass a mile — and then for trial, — 
Then for the pride of self-denial ; 
If lie resist that tempting door, 
Wiiich with such friendly voice will call ; 
II he resist those casement panes, 
'\iid that bright gleam which thence will 

fall 
Upon his Leaders' bells and manes, 
inviting him with cheerful lure: 
For still, though all be dark elsewhere. 
Some shining notice will be t/iere 
Of open house and ready fare. 

The place to Benjamin right well 
Is known, and by as strong a spell 



As used to be that sign of love 
And hope— the Olive-bough and Dove; 
He knows it to his cost, good Man ! 
Who does not know the famous Swan ? 
Object uncouth! and yet our boast. 
For it was painted by the Host ; 
His own conceit the figure planned, 
'Twas colored all by his own hand . 
And that frail Child of thirsty clay, 
Of whom I sing this rustic lay. 
Could tell with self-dissatistaction 
Quaint stories of the bird's attraction ! 

Well ! that is past — and in despite 
Of open door and shining light. 
And now the conqueror essays 
'i'he long ascent of Dunmail-raise ; 
And with his team is gently here 
As when he clomb from Kydal Mere; 
11 is whip they do not dieacl — his voice 
Tliey only hear it to rejoifce. 
To stand or go is at iheir pleasure ; 
Th.eir efforts and their time they measure 
By generous pride within the breast ; 
And, while they strain, and while they rett 
He thus pursues his thoughts at leisure. 

Now am I fairly safe to-night — 
And with proud cause my heart is light : 
I tresjjassed lately worse than ever — ■ 
Ikit Heaven has blest a good endeavor; 
And, to my soul's content, 1 find 
The evil One is left behind. 
Yes, let my master fume and fret^ 
Here am I — with my horses yet 
My jolly team, he finds that ye 
Will work for nobody but me ! 
Full proof of this the Country gained ; 
It knows how ye were vexed and strained, 
And forced unworthy stripes to bear, 
When trusted to another's care. 
Here was it — on this rugged slope. 
Which now ye climb with heart and hop«, 
I saw you, between rage and fear, 
Plunge, and fling back a spiteful ear, 
And ever more and more confused. 
As ye were more and more abused; 
As chance would have it, passing by 
1 saw you in that jeopardy : 
A word from me was like a charm ; 
Ye pulled together with one mind ; 
And your huge burthen, safe from harm, 
Moved like a vessel in the wind ! 
— Yes, without me, up hills so high 
'Tis vain to strive for mastery. 
Then grieve not, jolly team ! tliough tough 
The road we travel, steep, and rough; 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



i6i 



Tliough Rydal-lieights and Dunmail-raise, 
And ail their fellow banks and braes, 
Full often make you stretch and strain, 
And halt for breath and halt again, 
Yet to their stiirdiness 'tis owing 
That bide by side we still are going 1 

While Benjamin in earnest mood 
His meditations thus pursued, 
A storm, which had been smothered long, 
Was growing inwardly more strong ; 
And, in its struggles to get free. 
Was busily employed as he. 
The thunder had begun to growl — 
He heard not, too intent of soul ; 
The air was now without a breath-^ 
He marked not that 'twas still as death 
But soon large rain-drops on his head 
Fell with the weight of drojis of lead ;— 
He starts — and takes, at the admonition 
A sage survey of his condition. 
The road is black before his eyes, 
Glimmering faintly where it lies ; 
Black is the sky — and every hill, 
Up to the sky, is blacker still — 
Sky, hill, and dale, one dismal room, 
Hung round and overhung with gloom ; 
Save that above a single height 
Is to be seen a lurid light. 
Above Helm-crag * — a streak half dead, 
A burning of portentous red ; 
And near that lurid light, full well 
The Astrologer, sage Sidrophel, 
Where at his desk and book he sits, 
Puzzling aloft his curious wits ; 
He whose domain is held in common 
With no one but the ancient woman, 
Cowering beside her rifted cell, 
As if intent on magic spell ; — 
Dread pair, that, spite of wind and weather, 
Still sit upon Helm-crag together ! 

The Astrologer was not unseen 
By solitary Benjamin ; 
But total darkness came anon, 
And he and everything v/as gone : 
And suddenly a ruffling breeze, 
(That would have rocked the sounding trees 
Had aught of sylvan growth been there) 
Swept through the Hollow long and bare ; 
The rain rushed down — the road was bat- 
tered, 
As with the force of billows shattered ; 



The horses are dismayed, nor know 
Whether they shotdd stand or go ; 
And Henjamin is groping near them, 
Sees notiiing, and can scarcely hear tliem 
?{e is astounded, — wonder not, — 
With such a charge in such a spot ; 
Astounded in the mountain gap 
With thunder-peals, clap aft^r clap, 
Close-tre.iding on the silent flashes — 
And somewhere, as he thinks, by crashes 
Among the rocks ; with weight of rain, 
And sullen motions long and slow. 
That to a dreary distance go — 
Till, b-caking in upon the dying strain, 
A rending o'er his head begins the frs 
again. 



ra) 



* A mountain of Grasinere, the broken sum- 
mit of which presents two fieures, full as 
distnictly shaped as that of the famous Cobbler, 
near Arroquhar, in Scotland. 



Meanwhile, uncertain what to do. 
And oftentimes compelled to halt. 
The horses cautiously pursue 
Their way, without mishap or fault; 
And now have reached that pile of stones, 
Heaped over brave King Dunmail's bones j 
He who had once supreme command, 
Last king of rocky Cumberland ; 
His bones, and those of all his Power, 
Slain here in a dis.istrous hour ! 

When, passing through this lar^.ovf 
strait. 
Stony, and dark, and desolate, 
Benjamin can faintly hear 
A voice that comes from some one near, 
A female voice: — " Whoe'er you be, 
Stop,'' it exclaimed, "and pity me!" 
And, less in pity than in wonder, 
Amid the darkness and the thunder. 
The Wagoner, with prompt command, 
Summons his liorses to a stand. 

While, with increasing agitation. 
The Woman urged her supplication, 
In rueful words, with sobs between — 
The voice of tears that fell unseen ; 
There came a flash — a startling glare, 
And all Seat-Sandal was laid bare ! 
'Tis not a time for nice suggestion, 
I And Benjamin, without a question, 
Taking iier for some way-worn rover, 
Said, " Mount, and get you under cover. ' 

Another voice, in tone StS hoarse 
As a swoln brook witV rugged course, 
Cried out, " Good broT'.er, v'ljv so fait 
I've had a glimpse of ,'ou — avast ! 
Or. since it suits yon to be civil. 
Take her at once —tor good and evilf '^ 



1 62 



POEMS OF THE FAXCY. 



" It IS my husband,'' softly said 
The Woman, as if half afraid : 
By this time she was snu^ within, 
Tiirough help of honest Benjamin ; 
She and her Babe, which to her breast 
With thankfulness the Mother pressed ; 
And now the same strong voice more near 
Said cordially, " My Friend, what cheer? 
Rough doings these ! as God's my judge, 
The sky owes somebody a grudge ! 
We've had in half an hour or less 
A twelvemonth's terror and distress ! " 

Then Benjamin entreats the Man 
Would mount, too, quickly as he can : 
The Sailor — Sailor now no more. 
But such he had been heretofore — 
'i'o courteous Benjamin replied, 
'• Co you your way, and mind not me ; 
For 1 must have, whatc'er betide. 
My Ass and fifty things beside, — 
Go, and I'll follow speedily ! " 

The Wagon moves— and witli its load 
Descends along the sloping road ; 
And the rough Sailor instantly 
'J'urns to a little tent hard by : 
For when, at closing-in of day, 
Tlie family had come that way. 
Green pasture and the soft warm air 
Temj)ted them to settle there. — 
Green ts the grass for beast to graze, 
Around the stones of Dunmail-raise 

The Sailor gathers up his bed. 
Takes down tlie canvas overhead ; 
And, after farewell to the place, 
A iiarting word — though not of grace, 
I'ursues, with Ass and all his store, 
The way the Wagon went before. 



CANTO SECOND. 

If Wythcburn's modest House of jiraycr 

As lowly as the lowliest dwelling, 

H<\d, with its belfry's humble stock, 

A I'ttle pair that hang in air. 

Been mistress also of a clock, 

i And one, too, not in crazy plight) 

Twelve strokes that clock would have been 

telling 
Under the brow of old Helvellyn- 
Its bead-roll of midnight. 
Then, when the Hero ot my tale 
Was passing by, and, down the vale 
(The vale now silent, hushed I ween 
As =f a storm had never been) 



Proceeding with a mind at ease ; 
While the old Familiar of the seas 
intent to use his utmost haste. 
Gained ground upon the Wagon fast. 
And gives another lusty cheer ; 
For spite of rumbling of tiie wiiecls, 
A welcome greeting he can hear; — 
It is a fiddle in its glee 
Dinning from the Cherry Tree I 

Thence the sor.nd — the light is there 
As Benjamin is now aware, 
Who, to his inward thoughts confined, 
Had almost reached the festive door, 
When, startled by the Sailor's roar. 
He hears a sound and sees the liglit, 
And in a moment calls to mind 
That 'tis the village Merky-Nigjit 1 * 

Although before in no dejection. 
At th's insidious recollection 
His heart with sudden joy is filled, — 
His ears are by the music thrilled. 
His eyes take pleasure in the road 
Glittering before h'm bright and broad ; 
And r>enjamin is wet and cold, 
And tiiere are reasons manifold 
That make the good tov/rds which he's 

yearning 
Look fairly like a lawful earning, 

Nor has thought time to come and go, 
To vibrate between yes and no ; 
r^or, cries the Sailor, " Glorious chance 
That blew us hither !— let him dance 
Who can or will ! — my honest soul, 
Our treat shall be a friendly bowl!" 
He draws him to the door — " Come i 
Come, come," cries he to Jknjamin ! 
And P.cnjamin — ah, woe is me ! 
Gave the word — the horses heard 
And halted, though reluctantly. 

" Blithe souls and lightsome hearts have 
we. 
Feasting at the Cherry Tree !" 
This was the outside proclamation. 
This was the inside salutation ; 
What bustling — jostling — high and low' 
A universal overflow ! 
Wliat tankards foaming from the tap ! 
What store of cakes in every lap ! 

* A term well-known in the North of Eng. 
land, and ajiplied to rural Festivals where 
young persons meet in the evening for the pur 
poss of dancing. 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



1^3 



What thumping — stumping — overhead I 
Tlie thunder had not been more busy : 
vVith sucli a stir you would have said, 
'I'his little place may well be dizzy ! 
'Tis who can dance with greatest vigor — 
' Tis what can be most prompt and eager ; 
As if it heard the fiddle's rail, 
The pewter clatters on the wall ; 
'I'he very bacon shows its feeling, 
Swinging from the smoky ceilng ! 

A steaming bowl, a blazing fire, 
VViiat greater good can heart desire ? 
'Twere worth a wise man's while to try 
The utmost anger of the sky : 
To seek for thoughts of a gloomy cast, 
If such the bright amends at last. 
Now slunild you say 1 judge amiss, 
Tiic Cherry Tri:il shows ]>roof of this; 
For soon of all the happy there. 
Our Travellers are tlie happiest pair • 
All care with Uenjamin is gone — 
A Cicsarpast the Rubicon ! 
lie thinks not of his long, long, strife ;— 
The Sailor, Man by nature ga\', 
Hath no resolves to throw away; 
And he hath now forgot his Wife, 
Hath quite forgotten licr — or may be 
Thinks her the luckiest soul on cartli, 
Witiiin that warm and peaceful berth, 

Under cover, 

Terror over, 
Sleeping by her sleeping baby. 

With bowl that spread from hand to hand^ 
The gladdest of the rladsome band, 
Amid their own delight and fun, 
They hear — when every dance is done, 
When every whirling bout is o'er — 
The fiddle's squeak* — that call to bliss, 
Ever followed by a kiss ; 
They envy not the happy lot, 
But enjoy their own the more ! 

While thus our jocund Travellers fare, 
Up springs the Sailor from his chair — 
Limps (for I might have told before 
That he was lame) across the floor 
Is gone — returns — and with a prize 
With what? — a Ship of lusty size; 
A gallant stately Man-of-war, 
Fixed on a snpothly-sliding car. 



• At the close of each strathspey, or jig, a 
oarticular note from the firldle summons the 
kustic to the agreeable duty of saluting his 
IMirtnfti. 



Surprise tf) all, but most surprise 
To IJcnjamin, who rubs liis eyes. 
Not knowing that he had belricnded 
A man so gloriously attended 1 

" This," cries the Sailor, *' a Third rato 

is — 
Stand back, and yf u shall see her gratis ! 
This was the Flag-shii> at the Nile, 
The Vanguard — you may smirk and smile. 
But, pretty Maid, if you look near. 
You'll find you've much in little here ! 
A nobler ship did never swim. 
And you shall see her in full trim: 
I'll set, my friends, to do you honor, 
Set every inch of sail upon her." 
So said, so done ; and masts, sails, yards, 
He names them all ; and interlards 
His speech with uncouth terms of art, 
Accomplished in the showman's part ; 
And then, as from a sudden check. 
Cries out — " 'Tis there, the quarter-deck 
(Jn which brave Admiral Nelson stood — 
A sight that would have roused your bloodi 
One eye he had, which, bright as ten, 
Burned like a fire among his men ; 
Let this be land, and that be sea. 
Here lay the French — and thus came we ! " 

Hushed was by this the fiddle's sound, 
The dancers all were gathered round. 
And. such the stillness of the house, 
You might have heard a nibbling mouse ; 
While, borrowing helps where'er he may, 
The Sailor through the story runs 
Of ships to ships and guns to guns ; 
And docs his utmost to display 
The dismal conflict, and the might 
And terror of that marvellous night ! 
" A bowl, a ho\\\ of double measure," 
Cries Bonjaniin, "a draught of length. 
To Nelson, England's pride and trcastir«u 
Her bulwark and her tower of strength ! ^ 
When Benjamin had seized the bowl. 
The mastiff, from beneath the wagon, 
Where he lay, watchful as a dragon. 
Rattled his chain ; — 'twas all in vain, 
For Benj,:niin, triumphant soul ! 
He heard the monitory growl ; 
Heard — and in opposition quaffed 
A deep, determined, desperate draught I 
Nor did the battered Tar forget. 
Or flinch from w'hat he deemed his debt: 
Then, like a hero crowned with Uurel, 
Back to her place the ship he led; 
Wheeled lier back in full apparel; 
And so, flag flying at mast head. 



164 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



Rc-yokod her to the Ass :—anon, 
fries Benjamin, " We must be gone." 
Thus, after two hours' hearty stay, 
Again behold them on theii way 1 



CANTO THIRD. 

KiGHT gladly had the horses stirred, 
Wiien they the wished-for greeting heard, 
Tiie whip's loud notice from tlie door 
'I'll, it tliey were free to move once more. 
\ o'.i think, those doings nuist have bred 
In them disheartening doubts and dread; 
No, not a horse of all the eight, 
Although it be a moonless night, 
Fc.us cither for himself or freight ; 
l"or this they know (and let it hide, 
\w part, the offences of their guide) 
That Benjamin, with clouded brains. 
Is worth the best with all their pains ; 
And, if they had a prayer to make. 
The prayer would be that they may take 
With him whatever conies in course, 
The better fortune or the worse ; 
'I'hat no one else may have business near 

tlicm. 
And, drunk or sober, he may steer them. 

So, forth in dauntle.ss mood they fare, 
And with them goes the guardian pair. 

Now, heroes, for the true commotion, 
The triumph of your late devotion I 
Can auc^ht on earth impede delight, 
Still movinting to a higher height ; 
And higher still — a greedy flight ! 
Can any low-born care pursue her, 
Can any mortal clog come to her ? 
No notion have they— not a thought. 
That is from joyless regions brouglit ! 
And, while they coast the silent lake, 
Their inspiration I partake ; 
Share their empyreal spirits — yea, 
With their enraptured vision, see — 
fancy — what a jubilee! 
What shifting pictures— clad in gleams 
Of color bright as feverish dreams ! 
Earth, spangled sky, and lake serene, 
involved and restless all — a scene 
pregnant with mutual exaltation. 
Rich change, and multiplied creation ! 
This sight to me the Muse imparts ; — 
.^nd then, what kindness in tiieir hearts! 
What tears of rar.ture, what vow-making. 
Profound entreaties, and hand-shaking ! 
kVhat solemn, vacant, interlacing, 



As if they'd fall asleep embracing ! 
Then, in the turbulence of glee, 
And in the excess of amity, 
Says Benjamin, " That Ass of thine, 
He spoils thy sport, and hinders mine: 
If he were tethered to the wagon, 
He'd drag as well what he is dragging; 
And we, as brother should with brother, 
Might trudge it alongside each other '" 

Forthwith, obedient to command, 
The horses made a quiet stand ; 
And to the wagon's skirts was tied 
The Creature, by the Mastiff's side, 
The Mastiff wondering, and perplext 
With dread of v/hat will happen next ; 
And thinking it but sorry cheer, 
To have such company so near ! 

This new arrangement made, the Wain 
Through the still night proceeds aga h ; 
No Moon hath risjn her light to lend ; 
But indistinctly may be kenned 
The Vv\NGUARD, following close b'^hind, 
Sails spread, as if to catch the wind ! 

" Thy wife and child are snug and warm, 
Thy ship will travel w.thout harm ; 

^ like," said Benjamin, " her shape and 
stature : 

And this of mine — this bulky creature 

Of which I have the steering — this. 

Seen fairly, is not much amiss ! 

We want your streamers, friend, you know; 

J'ut, altogether as we go, 

We make a kind of handsome show ! 

Among these hills, from first to last. 

We've weathered many a furious blast ; 

Hard passage forcing on, with head 

Against the storm, and canvas spread. 

1 hate a boaster ; but to thee 

Will say't, who know'st both land and sea, 

The unluckiest hulk that stems the br'.nc 

Is hardly worse beset than mine. 

When cross-winds on her quarter beat ; 

And, fairly lifted from my feet, 

1 stagger onward — heaven knows how 

But not so pleasantly as now . 

Poor pilot I, by snows confounded ! 

And many a foundrous pit surrounded! 

Yet here we are, by night and day 

Grinding through rough and smooth our 
way ; • 

Through foul and fair our task fulfilhng ; 

And long shall be so yet — God willing ! " 
"Av," said the Tar, '' through fair anj 
foul- 
But save us from on screeching owl I " 



POEMS OF THE FAA'CY. 



•55 



That instant was beG;iin a fray 
Wliich called their -thoughts another way : 
The mastiff, ill-conditioned carl! 
Wliat nuist he do but ^ruwl aixl snarl, 
Still more and more dissatisfied 
With the meek comrade at his side ! 
Till, not incensed though put to proof, 
Th;2 Ass, uplifting a hind hoof, 
Salutes tlie Mastiff on tlic head ; 
And so were better manners bred, 
And all was calmed and quieted. 

" Yon screech-owl," says the Sailor, turn- 
ing 
Back to his former cause of mourning, 
" Yon owl !— pray God that all be well ! 
'Tis worse than any funeral bell ; 
As sure as I've the gift of siglit, 
We shall be meeting ghosts to-night ! " 
— Said Uenjamin, "Thiswliip sliall lay 
A tliousand, if they cross our way. 
1 know tliat Wanton's noisy station, 
I know him and his occupation ; 
'J'he jolly bird has learned his cheer 
U.i(*n the banks of Windermere ; 
Where a tribe of them make merry, 
Mocking the Man that keeps the ferry; 
llallooing from an open throat, 
Like travellers shouting f(jr a boat. 
—Tlie tricks he learned at Windermere 
This vagrant owl is playing here — 
That is the worst of his employment ; 
He's at the top of his enjoyment^ " 

This explanation stilled the alarm, 
Cured the foreboder like a charm ; 
This, and the manner, and the voice. 
Summoned the Sailor to rejoice ; 
f lis heart is up — he fears no evil 
From life or death, from man or devil ; 
He wheels — and, making many stops, 
J'.randished his crutch against the mountain 

tops ; 
And, while he talked of blows and scars, 
Benjamin, among the stars, 
Beheld a dancing— and a glancing ; 
Such retreating and advancing 
As, I ween, was never seen 
In bloodiest battle since the days of Mars ! 



CANTO FOURTH. 

I HUS they, with freaks of proud delight, 
Beguile the remnant <;*■ the night ; 
And many a snatch of jovial song 
Regales them as they wind a'ong ; 



W'i'le to the music, from on high, 
Tiie echoes make a '.lad reply. — 
But the sage Muse uie revel heeds 
No farther than her story needs.; 
Nor will she servilely attend 
The loitering journey to its end. 

— r>lithc spirits of her own impel 

The Muse, who scents the mcrning air, 
To take of this transported pair 
A brief and unreproved farewell ; 
To quit the slow-paced wagon's side, 
And wander down yon hawthorn dell, 
With muriiuiring Greta for her guide. 
— There doth she ken the awful form 
Of Raven-crag — black as a storm — 
Glimmering through the twilight pale; 
.And C^himmer-crag,* his tall twin brother, 
ICacli peering forth to meet the other: — 
And, while she roves through St. John's 

Vale, 
Along the smooth unpathwayed plain. 
By sheep-track or through cottage lane. 
Where no disturbance comes to intrude 
Upon the pensive solitude. 
Her unsuspecting eye, perchance. 
With the rude sheplicrd's fuvored glance, 
Beholds the fairies in array, 
Wiiose party-colored garments gay 
Tlie silent company betray • 
Reil, green, and blue; a moment's sigh. 
For Skidilaw-top with rosy liglit 
Is t. inched — and all the band take flight. 

— Fly also, Muse ! and from the dell 
Mount to the ridge of Nathdale I'^ll ; 

Til iice, look thou forth o'er wood and 

hwn 
Hoar wit 11 the frost-like dews of dawn ; 
Across yon meadowy bottom look, 
Wiiere close fogs hide their parent brook ; 
And see, beyond that hamlet small, 
T!ie ruined towers of Threlkeld-hall, 
Lurking in a double shade, 
Bv trees and lingering twilight made! 
There, at Blencathara's rugged feet, 
.Sir Lancelot gave a safe retreat 
To noble Clifford ; from annoy 
Concealed the persecuted boy, 
Weil pleased in rustic garb to feed 
His flock, and pipe on shepherd's reei 
Among this multitude of hills. 
Crags, woodlands, waterfalls, and rills ; 
Which soon the morning shall enfold, 
From east to west, in ample vest 
Of massy gloom and radiance bold. 



'* Tlic crag oi tlic ewe lamb. 



166 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



The mists, that o'er the streamlet's bed 
Hung low, begin to rise and spread ; 
Even while 1 speak, their skirts of gray 
Are smitten by a silver ray ; 
/".nd lo ! — up Castrigg's naked steep 
(Where, smoothly urged, the vapors sweep 
A lung— and scatter and divide, 
J, ike fleecy clouds self-multiplied) 
The stately wagon is ascending, 
With faithful iienjamin attending, 
Apparent now beside his team — 
Now lost amid a glittering steam : 
And with him goes his Sailor-friend, 
By this time near their journey's end ; 
And, after their high-minded riot. 
Sickening into thoughtful quiet ; 
As if the morning's pleasant hour, 
Had for their joys a killing power. 
And, sooth, for IJenjamin a vein 
Is opened of still deeper pain. 
As if his heart by notes were stung 
From out the lowly hedge-rows flung; 
As if the warbler lost in light 
Reproved his soarings of the night, 
In strains of rapture pure and holy 
Upbraided his distempered folly. 

Drooping is he, his step is dull ; 
But the horses stretch and pull ; 
With increasing vigor climb. 
Eager to repair lost time ; 
Whether, by their own desert, 
Knowing what cause there is for shame, 
They are laboring to avert 
As much as may be of the blame, 
Wiiicli, they foresee, must soon alight 
Upon his head, whom, in despite 
Of all his failings, they love best ; 
Whether for him they are distrest, 
Or, by length of fasting roused. 
Are impatient to be housed : 
Up against the hill they strain 
Tugging at the iron chain. 
Tugging all with might and main, 
Last and foremost, every horse 
To tlie utmost of his force ! 
And the smoke and respiration, 
Rising like an exhalation. 
Blend with the mist — a moving shroud 
To form, an undissolving cloud ; 
Which, with slant ray, the merry sun 
Takes delight to play upon. 
Never golden-haired Apollo, 
Pleased some favorite chief to follow 
Through accidents of peace or war, 
In a perilous moment threw 
Around the object of his care 



Veil of such celestial hue ; 
Interposed so bright a sc^en 
Him and his enemies between I 

Alas ! what boots it ? — who can hide, 
When the malicious Fates are bent 
On working out an ill intent t 
Can destiny be turned aside.'' 
No — sad progress of my story ! 
Benjamm, this outward glory 
Cannot sh.ield thee from thy Master, 
Who from Keswick has pricked forth, 
Sour and surly as the north ; 
And, in fear of some disaster, 
Comes to give what help he may, 
And to hear what thou canst say ; 
If, as needs he must forbode, 
Tliou hast been loitering on the road I 
His fears, his doubts, may now tak* 

flight^- 
The wished-for object is in sight : 
Yet, trust the Muse, it rather hath 
Stirred him up to livelier wrath ; 
Which he stifles, moody man ! 
With all the patience that he can ; 
To the end that, at your meeting, 
He may give thee decent greeting. 

There he is — resolved to stop, 
Till the wagon gains the top ; 
But stop he cannot — must advance: 
Him Benjamin, with lucky glance. 
Espies — and instantly is ready. 
Self-collected, poised, and steady: 
And, to be the better seen. 
Issues from his radiant shroud, 
From his close-attending cloud. 
With careless air and open mien. 
Erect his port, and firm his going ; 
So struts yon cock that now is crowing j 
And the morning light in grace 
Strikes upon his lifted face, 
Hurrying the pallid hue away 
That might his trespasses betray. 
But what can all avail to clear him, 
Or what need of explanation, 
Parley or interrogation ? 
For the Master sees, alas ! 
That unhappy Figure near him, 
Limping o'er the dewy grass. 
Where the road it fringes, sweet, 
Soft and cool to way-worn feet ; 
And, O indignity ! an Ass, 
By his noble Mastiff's side, 
Tethered to the wagon's tail : 
And the ship, in all her pride, 
Following after in full sail I 



1 



POEMS OF THE FANCY. 



167 



Not to speak of babe and mother ; 

Who, contented with each other, 
And snug as birds in leafy arbor. 
Find, within, a blessed harbor ! 

With eager eyes the Master pries : 
Looks in and out, and through and 

through ; 
Says nothing — till at last he spies 
A wound upon the Mastiff's head, 
A wound, where plainly might be read 
What feats an Ass's hoof can do ! 
Hut drop the rest : — this aggravation, 
i his complicated provdcation, 
A hoard ut grievances unsealed ; 
All past forgiveness it repealed ; 
And thus, and through distempered blood 
On both sides, Benjamin the good, 
The patient, and the tendei-iiearted, 
Was from his team and wagon parted ; 
When duty of that day was o'er, 
Laid down his whip— and served no more. 
Nor could the wagon long survive, 
Which Benjamin had ceased to drive : 
]t lingered on ; — guide after guide 
Ambitiously the ofhce tried ; 
But each unmanageable hill" 
Called tor his patience and his skill ; 
And sure it is. that through this night, 
And what the morning brought to light. 
Two losses had we tn sustain 
We lost both Wagoner and Wain ! 



Accept, O Friend, for praise or blame, 

The gift of this adventurous song ; 

A recnrd which 1 dared to frame. 

Though timid scruples checked me long ; 

They checked me — and I left the theme 

Untouched ; — in spite of many a gleam 

Of fancy which thereon was shed, 

Like pleasant sunbeams shifting still 

Upon the side of a distant hill : 

But Nature might not be gainsaid ; 

For what I have and what I mis? 

I sing of these ; — it makes my bliss : 

Nor is it I who play the part. 

But a shy spirit in my heart, 

That comes and goes — will sometimes leap 

From hiding-places ten years deep ; 

Or haunts me with familiar face, 

Returning, like a ghost unlaid, 

Until the debt I owe be paid. 

Forgive me, then : for I had been 

On friendly terms with this Machine : 



In him, while he was wont to trace 

Our roads, through many a !ong year's 

space, 
A living almanac had we ; 
We had a speaking diary, 
That in this uneventful place, 
(Jave to the days a mark and name 
By which we knew them when they came. 
— Vcs, 1, and all about me here, 
Througn all the changes of the year. 
Mad seen him through the mountains go, 
In pomp of mist or pomp of snow, 
Majestically huge and slow : 
Or, with a milder grace adorning 
The landscape of a summer's morning ; 
While Grasmere smoothed her liquid plain 
The moving image to detain ; 
And mighty Fairfield, with a chime 
Of echoes, to his march kept time ; 
Wlien little other business stirred, 
Aiid little other sound was heard ; 
In that delicious hour of balm. 
Stillness, solitude and calm, 
While yet the valley is arrayed, 
On this side with a sober shade; 
On tliat is prodigally bright — 
Crag, lawn, and wood — with rosv lifjht. 
— But most of all, thou lordly Wain! 
I wish to have thee here ac^ain, 
When windows flap and chimney roars. 
And all is dismal out of doors ; 
And, sitting by my fire, I see 
Eight sorry carts, no less a train ! 
Unworthy successors of thee. 
Come straggling through the wind and "^a 
And oft, as they pass slowly on, 
Beneath my windows, one by one. 
See, perched upon the naked height 
The summit of a cumbrous freight, 
A single traveller — and there 
Another ; then perhaps a pair — 
The lame, the sickly, and the old : 
Men, women, heartless with the cold ; 
And babes in wet and starveling plight 
Which once, be weather as it might. 
Had still a nest within a nest, 
Thy shelter — and their mother's breast, 
Then most of all, then far the nost. 
Do 1 regret what we have lost ; 
Am grieved for that unhappy sin 
Which robjed us of good Benjamin ; — 
And of his stately Charge, which none 
Could keep alive when He was gone! 
1805 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



I. 

THERE WAS A BOY. 

There was a Boy ; ye knew him well, ye 

cliffs 
And islands of Winander !— many a time, 
At evening, when the earliest stars began 
To move along the edges of the hills, 
Rising or setting, would he stand alone, 
Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake ; 
And tliere, with fingers interwoven, both 

hands 
Pressed closely palm to palm and to his 

m.outh 
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, 
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls. 
That they might answer him.— And they 

would shout 
Across the watery vale, and shout again, 
Responsive to his call, with quivering 

peals, ' 

And long halloos, and screams, and echoes 

loud 
Redoubled and redoubled ; concourse wild 
Of jocund din ! And, when there came a 

pause 
Of silence such as baffled his best skill : 
Then, j,ometn-nes, m that silence, while he 

hung 
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 
Has carried far into his heart the voice 
Of mountain-torrents ; or the visible scene 
Would enter unawares into his mind 
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, 
^ts woods, and that uncertain heaven re- 
ceived 
Into the bosom of the steady lake. 

This boy was taken from his mates, and 
died 

in childhood, ere he v/as full twelve y?ars 
old. 

Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale 

Where he was born and bred : the church- 
yard hangs 

Upon a slope above the village 3chool ; 

And, through that church-yard when my way 
has led 



On summer-evenings, I believe, that there 
A long half-hour together 1 have stood 
Mute— looking at the grave in which he liefi 
1799. 

♦ 



TO THE CUCKOO. 

BLITHE New-comer ! I have heard, 

1 hear thee and rejoice. 

Cuckoo ! shall 1 call thee Bird, : 
Or put a wandering Voice ? ^. 

While I am lying on the grass 
Thy twofold i-hout I hear, 
From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
At once far off, and near. 

Though bubbling only to the Vale, 
Of sunshine and of flowers, 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring i 

Even yet thou a'-t to me 

No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery . 

The same whom in my school-boy days 

1 listened to ; that Cry 

Which made me look a thousand ways 
In bush, and tree, and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green; ^ 
And thou wert still r, hope, a love;"^) 
Still lonsred for, never seen. 



And I can listen to thee yet : 
Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 
That golden time again. 

O blessed Bird ! the earth wc past 
Again nppears to be 
An unsubstantial, fairy place: 
That is fit home for Thee 1 
1804. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION: 



16^ 



III. 
A NIGHT-PIECE. 



The sky is overca?'; 

With a continuous cloud of texture close, 
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, 
Which tlirough that veil is indistinctly seen, 
A dull, contracted circle, yielding light 
So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, 
Checkering tlie ground — from rock, plant, 

tree, or tower. 
At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam 
Startles the pensive traveller wiiile he treads 
Hi'i lonesome path, with unobserving eye 
iJent earthwards ; he looks up — the clouds 

are split 
Asunder. — and above his head he sees 
The clear Moon, and the glory o^*" the 

heavens. 
There, in a black-blue vault she sails along. 
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small 
And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss 
Drive as she drives : how fast they wheel 

away, 
Tet vanish not ! — the wind is in the tree, 
r>ut they are silent ; — still they roll along 
Immeasurably distant ; and the vault, 
Jiuilt round by those white clouds, enormous 

clouds. 
Still deepens its unfathomable depth. 
At length the Vision closes; and the mind, 
Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, 
Which slowly settles mto peaceful calm, 
Is left to muse upon the solemn scene. 
1798. 



Of yon dim cave, in seemmg silence makes 
A soft eye-music of slow-waving boughs 
Powerful almost as vocal harmony, 
To stay tiie wanderer's steps and soothe liis 
thoughts. 



V, 



YEW-TREES, 



AIREY-FORCE VALLEY. 

Not a breath of air 

Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen. 
From the brook's margin, wide around, the 

trees 
Are steadfast as the rocks ; the brook itself, 
Old as the hills that feed it from afar, 
Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm 
Where all things else are still and motion- 
less. 
And yet, even now, a little breeze, perchance 
Escaped from boisterous winds that rage 

without, 
Has entered, by the sturdy oaks unfelt, 
But to its gentle touch how sensitive 
Is the light ash I that, pendent from the 
brow 



There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, 
W' hich to this day stands single, in the midst 
Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore : 
Not loth to furnish weapons for the hands 
Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched 
To Scotland's heaths ; or those that crossed 

the sea 
And drew their sounding bows at Azincour, 
Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers. 
Of vast circumference and gloom profound 
This solitary Tree ! a living thing 
Produced too slowly ever to decay ; 
Of form and aspect too magnificent 
To be destroyed. But worthier still of note 
Are those fraternal F'our of Borrowdale, 
Joined in one solemn and capacious grove; 
Huge trunks I and each particular trunk a 

growth 
Of intertwisted fibres serpentine 
Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved ; 
Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and lo(/ks 
That threaten the profane: — a pillared 

shade. 
Upon whose grasslcss floor of red-brown 

hue. 
By sheddings from the pining umbrage 

tinged 
Perennially — beneath whose sable roof 
Of boughs, as if for festal purpose decked 
With unrejoicing berries — ghostly Shapes 
May meet at noontide ; Fear and trembling 

Hope, 
Silence and Foresight ; Death the Skeleton 
And Time the Shadow ; — there 10 celebrate, 
As in a natural temple scattered o'er 
With altars undisturbed of mossy ston=>, 
United worship ; or in mute repose 
To lie, and listen to the mountain flood 
Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost Ciive% 
1S03. 



lyo 



POEMS OF THE IMACINATION, 



VI. 

NUTTING. 

It seems a day 

(I speak of one from many singled out), 
One of those heavenly days that caimot die, 
When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, 
I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth 
Witli a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, 
A nutting-crook in hand ; and turned my 

step 
Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure 

quaint, 
Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-of? 

weeds, 
Which for that service I. ad been husbanded. 
By exhortation of my frugal Dr. me — 
Motley accoutrement, of power to smil2 
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, — and, 

ill truth. 
More ragged than need was ! O'er pathless 

rocks. 
Through beds of matted fern and tangled 

thickets. 
Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook 
Unvisited, where not a broken bough 
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious 

sign 
Of devastation ; but the hazels rose 
Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, 
A virgin scene! — A little wliile I stood. 
Breathing witli such suppression of the 

heart 
As joy delights in ; and, witli wise restraint 
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed 
'I'he banquet ;^<)r beneatli tlie trees I sate 
Among the flowers, and with the flowers 1 

played ; 
A temper Known to those who, after long 
And weary expectation, have been blest 
Witii sudden happiness beyond all liope. 
I'eiiiaps it was a bower beneath wliose 

leaves 
'J'lie violets of five seasons re-appear 
Anl fade, unseen by any human eye ; 
Wliere fairy water-ljreaks do murmur on 
Forever ; and 1 saw the sparkling foam. 
And— with my cheek on one of those green 

stones 
That, fleeced with moss, under the shady 

trees, 
Lay round me, scattered like a flock ol 

sheep — 
I heard tiie murmur and the murmuring 

sound. 
In tliat sweet mood when pleasure loves to 

pay 



Tribute to ease ; and, cf its joy secure, 
The heart luxuriates with indifferent tliingL-, 
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, 
And on tlie vacant air. Then up 1 rose. 
And dragged to earth both branch and 

bough, with crash 
And merciless ravage : and the shady noci 
Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, 
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave i:p 
Their quiet being : and, unless I now 
Confound my present feelings with the past; 
Ere from the mutilated bower I turned 
Exulting, rich beyond the weaUh of kings, 
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld 
The silent trees, and saw the intruding 

sky. — 
Then, dearest Maiden, move along these 

shades 
In gentleness of heart ; w'.th gentle hand 
Toucli — for tlierc is a spirit in the woods. 
1799. 



VII. 



THE SIMPLON PASS. 



r.ROOK and road 



Were fellow-travcHers in tiiis gloomy Pass, 
And witli them did we journey several houri 
At a slow step. Tlie immeasurable height 
Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, 
Tlie stationary blasts of waterfalls. 
And in the narrow rent, at every turn, 
Winds thwarting winds bewildered and for- 
lorn. 
The torrents shooting from the clear blue 

sky. 
The rocks that muttered close upon our 

cars, 
lilack drizzling crags that spake by th.e 

wayside 
As if a voice were in them, the sick sighV 
A-ui giddy prospect of the raving stream, 
'J'lie unfettered clouds and region of the 

heavens, 
Tunuilt and peace, the darkness and t'le 

light- 
Were all like workings (if one mind, the 

features 
Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree, 
C'hara&ters of the great Ajiocalypse, 
The types and svmbols of Eternity, 
Of first, and last, and midst, and without 

end. 
1799. 



POEM'S OF TFTE IMAGINATTO!^. 



171 



VIII. 

She was a Fliantom of delight 
When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
A lovely Apparition, sent 
To be a moment's ornament ; 
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ; 
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
l^ut all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; 
A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 
To haunt', to startle, and way-lay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin-lil-)erty ; 

A countenance in wliicli did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 

A Creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food ; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eyes serene 
The very pulse of the machine ; 
A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveller between life and death ; 
The reason firm, the temperate will. 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
A perfect Woman, nobly planned, 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
Witii something of angelic light. 
1840. 



IX. 

Nightingale ! thou surely art 
A creature of a " fiery heart : " — 

These notes of thine — they pierce and pierce ; 

Tumultuous harmony and fierce I 

Thou sing'st as if the God of wine 

Had helped thee to a Valentine ; 

A song in mockery and despite 

Of shades, and dews, and silent night ; 

And steady bliss, and all the loves 

Now sleeping in these peaceful groves. 

1 heard a Stock-dove sing or say 
His homely tale, this very day ; 
His voice was buried among trees, 
Yet to be come-at by the breeze : 

He did not cease; but cooed — and cooed; 
And somewhat pensively he wooed ; 
He sang of love, with quiet blending, 
Slow to begin, and never ending ; 



Of serious faith, and inward glee : 
That was the song — the song for me ! 
1806. 



Three years she grew in sun and shower 

Then Nature said, " A lovelrer tluvver 
On earth was never sown ; 
This Child I to myself will take; 
She shall be mine, and 1 will make 
A Lady of my own. 

Myself will to my darling be 

Both law and impulse : and with me 

The Girl, in rock and plain, 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, ^ 

Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 

She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the l.avn 
Or up the mountain springs , 
And hers shall be the breathin'j l>.'m, 
And hers the silence and llie calm 
Of mute insensate things. 

The floating clouds their state slndl K iid 

To her ; for her the willow bend . 

Nor shall she fail to see 

Even in the motions of the Storm 

Grace that shall mould the Maiden's .""oinn 

By silent sympathy. 

The stars of midnight shall be dear 

To her ; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret jilace 

Where rivulets dance their wavward round. 

And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 

And vital feelings of delight 

Shall rear her form to stately height. 

Her virgin bosom swell ; 

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 

While she and I together live 

Here in this happy dell " 

Thus Nature spake— The work was done ■> 
How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 

She died, and left to me 

This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; 
The memory of what has bean, 

And never more will be. 
1799. 



172 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION'. 



A SLUMBER did my spirit seal ; 

I had no human fears : 
She seemed a thing that could not feel 

The touch of earthly years. 

No motion has she now, no force ; 

She neither hears nor sees ; 
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, 

With rocks, and stones, and trees. 
799- 



XII. 

I WANDERED lonely as a cloud 
That floats on high o'er vales and hills^ 
When ail at once J saw a crowd, 
'A host of golden daffodils ; 
Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Cfmtinuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way, 
They stretched m never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay •. 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced ; but they 

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : 

A poet could not but be gay, 

In such a jocund company : 

1 gazed — and gazed — but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought : 

For oft, when on my couch 1 lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eyeN 
Which is the bliss of solitude; -^ 
And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And (lances with the daffodils, 
iiio4. 



XIII. 

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN 

At the corner of Wood Street, when day- 
light appears, 

Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung 
for three years : 

Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has 
heard 

In the silence of morning the song of the 
Bird. 



'Tis a note of enchantment ; what ails her ? 

She sees 
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees : 
Bright volumes of vapor through Lothbury 

glide, 
And a river flows on through the vale r-t 

Cheapside. 

Green pastures she views in the midst ol 

tlie dale, 
Down which she so often has tripped with 

her pail ; 
And a single small cottage, a nest like a 

dove's, 
The one only dwelling on earth that she 

loves. 

She looks, and her heart is in heaven ; but 

they fade. 
The mist and the river, the hill and the 

shade 
The stream will not flow, and the lull will 

not rise, 
And the colors have all passed away frora 

her eyes ! 
1797. 



XIV. 

POWER OF MUSIC. 

An Orpheus ! an Orpheus ! yes, Faitli may 
grow bold. 

And take to herself all the wonders of 
old ;— 

Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with 
the same 

In the street that from Oxford hath bor- 
rowed its name. 

Ilis station is there ; and he works on the 

crowd, 
He sways them with harmony merry and 

loud ; 
He fills with his power all their hearts to 

tlie brim — 
Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and 

him ? 

What an eager assembly ! what an empire 

is this! 
The weary have life, and the hungry have 

bliss : 
The mourner is cheered, and the anxious 

have rest ; 
And the gilt-burthened soul is no longer 

opprest. 



rOEMS OF THE /MAC /NAT/ ON. 



173 



As the Moon brightens round her the clouds 

of the night, 
So He, where lie stands, is a centre of hght. 
It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed 

Jack, 
And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket 

on back. 

That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in 

haste — 
What matter ! he's caught — and his time 

runs to waste ; 
The Newsman is stopped, though he stops 

on the fret ; 
And the half-breathless Lamplighter — he's 

in the net ! 

The Porter sits down on the weight which 

he bore ; 
The Lass with her barrow wheels b.ither her 

stiirc ; — 
If a'thicf could be here he might pilfer at 

case , 
She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees ! 

He stands, backed by the wall ; — he abates 

not his din , 
His hat gives h.im vigor, with boons drop- 

pmg in. 
From the old and the young, from the 

poorest , and there ! 
The onc-pennied Boy has his penny to 

spare. 

blest are the hearers, and proud be the 

hand 
Of the pleasure it spreads through so thank- 
ful a band ; [while 

1 am glad for him, blind as he is ! — all the 
If they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise 

with a smile. 

That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in 

height, 
■Kot an^ inch of his body is free from de- 
light ; 
Can he kecj-i himself still, if he would ? oh, 

not ho ! 
The nuisic stirs in him like wind through a 

tree. 
Mark that Cripple who leans on his crutch ; 

like a tower 
That long has leaned forward, leans hour 

after hour ! — 
That Mother, whose spirit in fetters is 

bound, 
While she dandles the Babe in her arms to 

the sound. 



Now, coaches and chariots ! roar on like a 

stream ; 
Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a 

dream , 
They are deaf to your murmurs — they can 

not for you, 
Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye puTi 

sue ! 
1806. 



XV. 

STAR-GAZERS. 

What crowd is this? what have we here! 

we must not pass it by ; 
A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to 

the sky : 
Long is it as a barber's pole, or mast of 

"little boat. 
Some little pleasure-skiff, that dolh on 

Thames' s waters float. 

The Show-man chooses well his place, 'tis 

Leicester's busy Square ; 
And is as hapjiy in his night, for the 

heavens are blue and fair ; 
Calm, though impatient, is the crowd ; each 

stands ready with the fee. 
And envies him that's looking : — what an 

insight must it be ! 

Yet, Show-man, where can lie the cause? 
Shall thy implement have blame, 

A boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is 
put to shame ? 

Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes 
in fault ? 

Their eyes, or minds or. finally, is yon re- 
splendent vault i 

Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as 

we have here ? 
Or gives a thing but small delight that never 

can be dear ? 
The silver moon with all her vales, and hills 

of mightiest fame. 
Doth she betray us when they're seen? or 

are they but a name ? 
Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and 

strong, 
And bounty never yields so much but it 

8eems to do her wrong ? 
Or is it, that when human Souls a journey 

long have had 
And are returned into themselves, they can- 
not but be sad? 



*74 



POEMS OF 7 HE IMAGINATION: 



Or must we be constrained to think that 

these Spectators rude, 
Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the 

multitude, 
Have souls which never yet have risen, and 

therefore prostrate lie ? 
No, no, this cannot be ; — men thirst for 

power and majesty ! 

Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the 

blissful mind employ 
Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave 

and steady joy, 
That doth reject all show of pride, admits 

no outward sign. 
Because not of this noisy world, but silent 

and divine ! 

Whatever be the cause, 'tis sure that they 
who pry and pore 

Seem to meet with little gain, seem less 
happy than before : 

One after One they take their turn, nor 
have I one espied 

That doth not slackly go away, as if dissat- 
isfied 
1806. 



WRITTEN IN MARCH, 

WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT 
THE FOOT OF BROTHER'S WATER. 

The cock is crowing, 

The stream is flowing, 

The small birds twitter. 

The lake doth glitter, 
The green field sleeps in the sun ; 

The oldest and youngest 

Are at work with the strongest ; 

The cattle are grazing. 

Their heads never raising ; 
There are forty feeding like caie ! 

Like an army defeated 

The snow hath retreated. 

And now doth fare ill 

On the top of the bare hill ; 
The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — 
anon : 

There's joy in the mountains ; 

There's life in the fountains ; 

Small clouds are sailing. 

Blue sky prevailing ; 
The/ain is over and gone ! 
iSoi. ■ 



Lyre ! though such power do in thy magic 
live 
As might from India's farthest plain 
Recall the not unwilling Maid, 
Assist me to detain 
The lovely Fugitive: 
Check with thy notes the impulse which, 

betrayed 
By her sweet farewell looks, I longed to aid.. 
Here let me gaze enrapt upon that eye, 
'i"he impregnable and awe-inspiring fort 
Of contemplation, the calm port 
By reason fenced from winds that sigh 
Among the restless sails of vanity. 
But if no wish be hers that we should part, 
A humbler bliss would satisfy my heart. 

Where all things are so fair, 
Enough by her dear side to breathe the air 

Of tins Elysian weather. 
And, on or in, or near, the brook, espy 
Shade upon the sunshine lying 

Faint and somewhat pensively : 
And downward Image gayly vying 
With its upright living tree 
Mid silver clouds, and openings. of blue sky 
As soft almost and deep as her cerulean eye. 

Nor less the joy with many a glance 

Cast up the Stream or down at her beseeclv 

To marks its eddying foam-balls prettily 

distrest 
By ever-changing shape and want of rest ; 
Or watch, with mutual teaching, 
The current as it plays 
In flashing leaps and stealthy creeps 
Adown a rocky maze ; 
Or note (translucent summer's happiest 

chance ! ) 
In the slope-channel floored with pebbles 

bright, 
Stones of all hues, gem emulous of gem, 
So vivid that they take from keenest siglU 
The liquid veil that seeks not to hide them. 



XVIII. 

BEGGARS. 



She had a tall man's height or more; 
Her face from summer's noontide heat 
No bonnet shaded, but she wore 
A mantle, to her very feet 
Descending with a graceful flow. 
And on her head a cap as white as new 
fallen snow. 



rOLMS UF THE IMAGIXATIOX. 



175 



Her skin was of Egyptian brown 
Haughty, as if Iier eye had seen 
Its own light to a distance thrown, 
She towered, fit person for a Oueen 
To lead those ancient Amazonian files; 
Or ruling Bandit's wife among the (Jrecian 
isles. 

Advancing, forth she stretched her ha 
And begged an alms with doleful plea 
Tliat ceased not ; on our English land 
Such woes, I knew, could never be ; 
And yet a Loon I gave her. for the crjature 
Was beautiful to see — a weed of glorious 
feature. 

I left her, and pursued my way ; 
And soon before me did espy 
A i^air of little Coys at play, 
Chasing a crimson butterfly ; 
The taller followed vv'ith his hat in hand, 
Wreathed round witli yellow flowers the 
gayest of the land. 

The other wore a rimless crown 
With leaves of laurel stuck about ; 
And, while both followed up and down, 
Each whooping with a merry shout, 
In their fraternal features 1 could trace 
Unquestionab'e lines of that wild Suppliant's 
face. 

Vet they, so blithe of heart, seemed fit 

For finest ta^ks ( f earth < r a'r : 

Wings let them have, and they might flit 

Precursors to Aurora's car. 

Scattering fresh flowers ; though happier far, 

I v^e^n, 
hunt the 

level green. 

They dart across my path— but lo, 

Each ready with a plaintive whine ! 

Said 1, " not half an hour ago 

Your Mother lias had alms of mine." 

" That cannot be,"' one answered — " she is 

dead : " — 
Hooked reproof — Laey saw — but neither 
I hung his head. 

** She has been dead, Sir, many a day." — 
" Hush, boys ! you're telling me a lie ; 
It was your Mother, as I say ! ' 
And m tlie twinkling of an eye, 
1 "Come! come!" cried one, and without 

more ado, 
Off to some other play the jjvous Vagrants 
flew! 

lS02. 



SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING, 

COMI'OSEU MANY YE.NKS ATTtR. 

Where are they now, those wanton Boys? 

For whose free range the daedal earth 

Was filled with animated toys, 

And uiiplcments of frolic mirth ; 

With tools for leady wit to guide ; 

And ornaments of seemlier jiride. 

More fresh, more bright, than princes wear ; 

For what one moment flung aside 

Another could repair ; 

What good or evil have they seen 

Since I their pastime witnessed here, 

Their daring wiles, their sportive cheer ? 

I ask — but all is dark between ! 

They met me in a genial hour, 
When universal nature breathed 
As with the breath of one sweet flower, — 
.A time to overrule the jwwcr 
Of discontent, and check tlie birth 
Of tlioughts with better thoughts at strife, 
The most familiar bane of life 
Since parting Innocence bequeathed 
Mortality to Earth ! 
Soft clouds, the whitest of the year. 
Sailed through tlie sky — the brooks ran cle^r ; 
The lambs from rock to rock were bounding ; 
With songs the budded groves resounding ; 
\nd to my heart are still endeared 
The thoughts with which it then was cheered , 
The faith which saw that gladsome pair 
Walk through t!ic fire with unsinged hair. 
Or, if such faith must needs deceive — 
Then, Spirits of beauty and of grace, 
Associates in that eager chase ; 
Ye, wlio within the blameless mind 
Your favorite seat of empire find — 
Kind Spirits ! may we not believe 
That tiiey, so happy and so fair 
Through your sweet influence, and the rare 
Of pitying Heaven, at least were free 
From touch of deadly injury ? 
Destined, whate'er their earthly doom, 
For mercy and immortal bloom ! 



XX. 

GIPSIES. 

Yet are they here the same imbrckcn knot 
Of human Beings, in the self-same spot ! 
Men, women, childn n, yea the frame 
Of the whole spectacle the same I 



ryo 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Only their fire seems bolder, yielding liglit, 
Now deep and red, the colornig of niglit, 
That on tlieir Gipsy-faces falls, 
Tlieir bed of straw and blanket-walls. 
—Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours are 

gone, while I 
Have Ijeen a traveller under open sky, 

Much witnessing of change and cheer, 
Yet as i left I find them here ! 
The weary Sun betook himself to rest ; — 
Then issued Vesper from the fulgent west, 
Outshining like a visible God 
I'he glorious path in which he trod. 
And iu)w, ascending, after one dark hour 
And one night's diminution of her power, 
Behold the mighty Moon ! this way 
She looks as if at them — but they 
Regard not her :— oh better wrong and strife 
(By nature transient) than this torpid life; 
^>ife vvhicli tlie very stars reprove 
As on their silent tasks they move ! 
Vet. witness all that stirs in heaven or earth ! 
m scorn I speak not ;— they are what their 
birth 
And breeding suffer tliem to be ; 
Wild outcai;tb ot society ! 
1S07. 



XXI. 

RUTH. 

When Ruth was left half-desolate, 
Her Father took another Mate , 
And Ruth, not seven years old, 
A slighted child, at her own will 
Went wandering over dale and hill, 
In thoughtless freedom, bold. 

And she had made a pipe of straw. 
And music from that pipe could draw 
Like sounds of winds and floods ; 
Had built a bower upon the gre.-n, 
As if she from licr birth had been 
An infant of the woods. 

Beneath her father's roof, alone 

Slie seemed to live ; her thoughts her own 

Herself her own delight ; 

P'leased with herself, nor sad, nor gay ; 

And, passing thus the live-long day. 

She grew to woman's height. 

There came a Youth from Georgia's bhore - 

A military casque he wore, 

Witii splendid feathers drest ; 

He brought them from the Ch,irokeeF ; 

Tlie feathers nodded in t'.ie breeze, 

And made a gallant crest. 



From Indian blood you doem him sprung ; 
But no ! he spake the En^j^^isli tongue, 
And bore a soldier's name ; 
And when America was tree, 
Fiom battle and from jeopardy, 
He 'cross the ocean came. 

With hues of genius on his cheek 

In finest ton^s the Youtli could speak ? 

— While he was yet a boy, 

The moon, the glory of the sun. 

And streams that murmur as they run, 

Had been his dearest ]oy. 

He was a lovely Youth ! I guess 

The panther in the wilderness 

Was not so fair as he ; 

And, when he chose to sport and play. 

No dolphin ever was so gay 

Upon the tropic sea. 

Among the Indians he had fought, 

And with him many tales he brouglit 

Of pleasure and of fear ; 

Such talcs as told to any maid 

r>y suc'.i a Youth, in the green shade, 

Were perilous to hear. 

He told of girls — a happy rout ! 

Who quit their fold with dance and ^hout. 

Their pleasant Indian town, 

To gather strawberries all day long , 

Keturning witli a choral song 

When daylight is gone down. 

He spake of plants that hourly chan'i^e 
Tiieir blossoms, through a boundless range 
Of intermingling hues ; 
With budding, fading, faded flowers 
They stand the wonder of the bowers 
From morn to evening dews. 

He told of the magnolia, spread 
High as a cloud, high overhead ! 
The cypress and her spire; 
— Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam 
Cover a hundred leaijiies, and seem 
To set the hills on tire. 

The Youth of green savannas spake, 
And many an endless, endless lake. 
With all its fairy crowds 
Of islands, that together lie 
As quietly as spots of sky 
Among the evening clcyuds. 

" How pleasant," then he said, " it were 
A tisher or a hunter there. 



POEMS OF THE IMAuJNATION. 



17' 



In sunshine or in shade 
To wander wiili an easy mind ; 
And build a houseliold fire, and find 
A home in every glade I 

What days and what bright years ! Ah me ! 

Our life were life indeed, with thee 

So passed in quiet bliss, 

And all the while," said he, " to know 

That we were in a world of woe, 

On such an earth as this i " 

And then he sometimes interwove 
Fond thoughts, about a father's love : 
•* For there," said he, " are spun 
Around the heart such tender ties, 
Tliat our own cliildren to our eyes 
Are dearer than the sun. 

Sweet Ruth ! and could you go with me 

My helpmate in the woods to be, 

Or shed at night to rear ; 

Or run, my own adopted bride, 

A sylvan huntress at my side, 

And drive the flying deer ! 

Beloved Ruth ! " — no more he said. 
The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed 
A sohtary tear : 

She thought again — and did agree 
With him to sail across the sea, 
And drive the fiying deer. 

" And now, as fitting is and right. 
We in the church our faith will plight, 
A husband and a wife." 
Even so they did ; and I may say 
That to sweet Ruth that happy day 
Was more than human life. 

Through dream and vision did she sink, 
Delighted all the while to think 
That on those lonesome floods. 
And green savannas, she should share 
His board with lawful joy, and bear 
His name in the wild woods. 

But, as you have before been told. 
This Stripling, sportive, gav, and bold, 
And, with his dancing crest, 
?o beautiful, tlirough savage lands 
Had roamed about, with vagrant bands 
Of Indians in the West. 

The wind, the tempest roaring high, 

The tumult of a troi)ic sky, 

Miglit well be dangerous food 

For him, a Youth to whom was given 

So much of earth — so much of heaven, 

^nd such impetuous blood. 



Whatever in those climes he found 

irregular in sight or sound 

Did to his mind impart 

A kindred impulse, seemed allied 

To his own powers, and justified 

The workings of his heart. 

Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, 
The beauteous forms of nature wrought, 
Fair trees and gorgeous flowers ; 
The breezes their own languor lent ; 
The stars had feelings, which they sent 
Into those favored bowers. 

Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween 
Tiiat sometimes there did intervene 
Pure hopes of high intent : 
For passions, linked to forms so fair 
And stately, needs must have their share 
Of noble sentiment. 

I5ut ill he lived, much evil saw, 
VVHh men to whom no better law 
Nor better life was known ; 
Deliberately, and undeceived, 
Tiiose wild men's vices he received, 
And gave them back his own. 

His genius and his moral frame 
Were thus impaired, and he became 
The slave of low desires ; 
A Man who without self-control 
Would seek what the degraded soul 
Unworthily admires. 

And yet he with no feigned delight 
Had wooed the Maiden, day and night 
Had loved her, night and morn : 
What could he less than love a Maid 
Whose heart with so much nature played I 
So kind and so forlorn I 

Sometimes, most earnestly, he said, 
" O Ruth ! 1 have been worse than dead ; 
False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain, 
Encompassed me on every side ■ 
When I, in confidence and pride, 
Had crossed the Atlantic main. 

r>cfore me shone a glorious world—- 
Fresh as a barncr bright, unfurled 
To music suddenly : 
I looked upon those hills and plains, 
And seemed as if let loose from chair-S; 
To live at liberty. 

No more of this ; for now, by thee, 
Dear Ruth ! more happily set free 



178 



POEMS OF THE IMAGIiYATIGN, 



With nobler zeal I burn ; 
My soul from darkness is released, 
Like the whole sky when to the east 
'I'iie morning doth return." 

Full soon that better mind was gone; 
No hope, no wish remained, not one, 
i'hey stirred him now no more ; 
New objects did new pleasure give, 
And once again he wished to live 
As lawless as before. , 

Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, 
They for the voyage were prepared, 
And went to the sea-shore: 
But, when they thither came, the Youth 
Deserted his poor F>nde, and Ruth 
Could never find him more. 

God help thee, Ruth ! — Such pains she had. 

That she in half a year was mad. 

And in a prison housed ; 

And there, with many a doleful song 

Made of wild words, her cup of wrong 

She fearfully caroused. 

Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, 
Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, 
Nor pastimes of the May ; 
— Tiiey all were with her in her cell ; 
And a clear brook with cheerful knell 
Did o'er the pebbles play. 

When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, 
There came a respite to her i)ain ; 
She from her prison fled ; 
r.ut of the Vagrant none took thought; 
And where it liked her best she sought 
Her shelter and her bread. 

A mong the fields she breathed again : 
'Jhe master-cMTcnt of her brain 
Ran permanent and free ; 
And, coming to the Banks of Tone, 
Tliere did she rest ; and dwell alone 
Under the greenwood tree. 

The engines of her pain, the tools 

That sha])cd her sorrow, rocks and pools, 

\nd airs that gently stir 

The vernal leaves — she loved them still ; 

Nor ever taxed them with the ill 

Wliich had been done to her. 

A Barn her winter bed supplies : 

But, till tlie warmth of summer skies 

And summer days is gone, 

lAncI all do in this tale agree) 

She slet'ps beneath the greenwood tree. 

And otlier home hath none. 



An innocent life, yet far astray I 

And Ruth will, long before her day, 

Be broken down and old : 

Sore aches she needs must have 1 but less 

Of mind than body's wretchedness, 

From damp, and rain, and cold. 

if she is prest by want of food, 
She from her dwelling in the wood 
Repairs to a roadside ; 
And there she begs at one steep place 
Where up and down with easy pace 
The horsemen-travellers ride. 

That oaten pipe of hers is mute, 
Or thrown away ; but with a flute 
Her loneliness she cheers : 
This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, 
At evening in his homeward walk 
The Quantock woodman heais. 

I, too, have passed her on the hills 
Setting her little water-mills 
By spouts and fountains wild — ,• 
Such small machinery as she turned 
Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned, 
A young and happy Child! 

Farewell ! and when thy days are told, 
Ill-fated Ruth, in hallowed mould 
Tliy corpse shall buried be. 
For thee a funeral bell shall ring, 
And all the congregation sing, 
A Christian psalm for thee. 
1799- 



XXII. 

RFSOLUTION AND INDEPEN- 
DENCE. 
I. 

Therf. was a roaring in the wind all night ; 
The rain came heavily and fell in floods ; 
But now the sun is rising calm and bright ; 
The birds are singing in the distant woods; 
Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove 

broods ; [ters ; 

The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chat- 
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise 

of waters. 

II. 
All things that love the sun are out of 

doors ; 
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth ; 
The grass is bright with rain-drops ; — on tlK 

moors 
The hare is running races in her mirth ; 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION-. 



179 



And with her feet she from the plashy earth 
Raises a mist ; that, ghttering m the sun, 
Rims with her all the way, wherever she 
doth run. 



I was a Traveller then upon the moor, 
1 saw the hare that raced about with joy; 
1 lieard the woods and distant waters roar ; 
Or heard them not, as happy as a boy : 
The pleasant season did my heart employ: 
My old remembrances went from me 

wholly ; 
And all the ways of men, so vain and melan- 
choly. 

IV. 

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the 

might 
Of joy in minds that can no further go, 
As high as we have mounted in delight 
In our dejection do we sink as low ; 
To me that morning did it happen so ; 
And fears and fancies thick upon me came; 
Dim sadness — and blind thoughts, I knew 

not, nor could name. 



I heard the sky-lark warbling in the skv; 

And I bethought me of the playful hare : 

Even such a happy Child of earth am 1 ; 

Even as these blissful creatures do I fare ; 

Far from the world 1 walk, and from all 
care; 

But there may come another day to me — 

Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and pov- 
erty. 

! vr. 

My whole life I have lived in pleasant 
thought, 

As if life's business were a summer mood ; 

As if all needful things would come un- 
] sought 

To "genial faith, still rich in genial good ; 

f>ut how can He expect that others should 
\ Build for him, sow for him. and at his call 
j Love him, who for himself will take no 
heed at all ? 



I thought of Chatter ton, the marvellous 
Boy, 

The sleepless Soul that perished in his 
pride : 

Of Him who walked in glory and in joy 

Fo'lowing his plough, along the mountain- 
side: 



By our own spirits are we deified; 
We Poets in our youth begin in gladness : 
But thereof come in the end despondencjl 
and madness. 



Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 
A leading from above, a something given, 
Yet it befell that, in this lonely place. 
When 1 with these untoward thoughts had 

striven. 
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven 
I saw a Man before me unawares . 
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore 

gray hairs. 



As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie 
Couched on the bald top of an eminence ; 
Wonder to all who do the same espy. 
By what means it could thither come, and 

whence ; 
So that it seems a thing endued with sense 
Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a 

shelf 
Of rock or sand rcposeth, there to sun iv 

self; 

X. 

Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor 

dead, 
Nor all asleep — in his extreme old age : 
His body was bent double, feet and head 
Coming together in life's pilgrimage , 
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage 
Of sickness felt by him in times long past, 
A more than human weight upon his frame 

had cast. 



Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale 

face, 
lT]-)on a long gray staff of shaven wood : 
And, still as \ drew near witli gentle pace. 
Upon the margin of that moorish flood 
Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood, 
Tliat heareth not the loud winds when they 

call: 
And moveth all together, if it move at all. 



At length, himself unsettling, he the pond 
Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look 
Upon the muddy water, which he conned. 
As if he had been reading in a book : 
And now a stranger's privilege 1 took : 
And, drawing to his side, to him did say, 
"This morning gives i.s promise of a glo 
rious day." 



iSo 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATTOA\ 



XIII. 

A gentle answer did the old Man make, 

In courtouus speech winch fortli lie slowly 

drew : 
And him with f urtiier words I thus bespake, 
' What occupation do you tliere pursue? 
This is a lonesome place for one like you." 
Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise 
Broke from the sable orbs of his y^t-vivid 

eyes. 

XIV. 

His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, 
But each in solenm order followed each, 
With something of a lofty utterance drest — 
Choice word and measured phrase, ?bove the 

reach 
Of ordinary men ; a stately speech ; 
Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use, 
Religious men, who give to God and man 

their dues. 

XV, 

He told, that to these waters he had come 

To gather leeches, being old and poor : 

Employment hazardous and wearisome ! 

And he had many hardships to endure ; 

[•"rom pond to pond he roamed, from moor 
to moor ; 

Housing, with God's good help, by choice 
or chance ; 

And in this way he gained an honest main- 
tenance. 

XVI 

The old Man still stood talking by my side ; 
But now his voice to me was like a stream 
Scarce heard ; nor word from word could I 

divide : 
And the whole body of the Man did seem 
Like one whom 1 had met with in a dream ; 
Or like a man from some far region sent, 
To give me human strength, by apt admon- 
ishment. 



My former thoughts returned ; the fear that 

kills; 
And hope that is unwilling to be fed ; 
Cold, pain, and labor, and .ili fleshly ills ; 
And mighty Poets in their misery dead. 
— Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, 
My question eagerly did I renew, 
" How is it that you live, and what is it you 

do?" 



He with a smile did then his words repeat; 
And said, that, gathering leeches, far and 

wide 
He travelled ; stirring thus about his feet 
The waters of the pools where they abide. 
" Once I could meet with them on everj 

side ; 
But they have dwindled long by slow decay ; 
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I 

may." 



While he was talking thuc, the lonely placC; 

The old Man's shape, and speech — all 
troubled me • 

In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace 

About the weary moors continually, 

Wandering about alone and silently. 

While 1 these thoughts within myself pur 
sued, 

He, having made a pause, the same dis- 
course renewed. 



And soon with this he other matter blended, 
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanor kind, 
But stately in the main ; and when he 

ended, 
I could have laughed myself to scorn to find 
In that decrepit Man so llrm a mind. 
" God," said I, " be my help and stay 

secure ; 
I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the 

lonely moor ! " 
1S07. 



XXIII, 

THE THORN. 
I. 

" There is a Thorn — it looks so t)ld, 

In truth, you'd find it hard to buy 

How it could ever have been young, 

It looks so old and gray. 

Not higher than a two years' child 

It stands erect, this aged Thorn ; 

No leaves it has, no prickly points; 

It is a mass of knotted joints, 

A wretched thing forlorn. 

It stands erect, and like a stone 

With lichens is it overgrown. 



fl 



i\ 



POEMS OF THE fAf AG /NATION: 



[8j 



Like rock or stone, it is o'ers^rown 

With lichens to the very top, 

And hung with lieavy tutts of moss, 

A melanciioly crop : 

Up from ihe earth these mosses creep, 

And this pour Thorn they clasp it round 

So close you'd say that they aie bent 

With plain and manifest intent 

To drag it to the groimd ; 

And all iiave joined m one endeavor 

To bury this poor Thorn forever. 



High on a mountain's highest ridge, 

Wiiere oft the stormy winter gale 

Cuts like a scythe, while through the 

clouds 
It sweeps from vale to vale ; 
Not live yards from the mountain path, 
This Thorn you on your left esi)y ; 
And to the left, three yards beyond, 
You see a little muddy pond 
Of water — never dry, 
Thougli but of compass small, and bare 
To thirsty suns and parching air. 



And, close beside tiiis aged Thorn, 
There is a fresh and lovely sight, 
A beauteous heap, a hill of moss, 
Just half a foot in height. 
All lovely colors there you see, 
All colore tiuit were ever seen ; 
And mossy network too is there, 
As if by hand of lady fair 
The work had woven been ; 
And cups, the darlings of the eye. 
So deep is their vermilion dye. 



Ah me ! what lovely tints arc there 

Of olive green and scarlet bright, 

In spikes, in branches, and in ;.tars, 

(Ireen, red, and pearly white ! 

Tins heap of earth o'ergrown with moss, 

Which close beside the Thorn you sec, 

So fresii in all its beauteous dyes, 

Is like an infant's grave in size. 

As like as like can be : 

Bu never, never any where, 

An infant's sravo was half so fair. 



Now would you see this aged Thorn, 
I'his }iond, and beauteous hill of moss, 
You must take care and choose your time 



The mountain when to cross. 

Fur oft there sits between the heap 

So like an infant's grave m size, 

And that same pond of which 1 spoke, 

A Woman in a scarlet cloak, 

And to herself she cries, 

' Oil misery ! oh misery I 

Oh woe is me ! oh irisery ! ' 

va. 
At all times of the day and night 
This wretched Woman thither goes; 
And she is known to every star, 
And every wind that blows ; 
And there, beside the Thorn, she sits 
When the blue daylight's in the skies. 
And when the whirlwind's on the hill, 
Or frosty air is keen and L,till, 
And to herself she cries, 
' Oh misery ! oh misery ! 
Oh woe is me I oh misery ! ' " 

VIII. 

" Now wherefore, thus, by day and night, 
In rain, in tempest, and in snow. 
Thus to the dreary mountain-top 
Does this poor Woman go? 
A id why sits she beside the Thorn 
When the blue daylight's in the sky, 
Or when the whirhvind's on the hill. 
Or frosty air is keen and still, 
And wherefore does she cry ? — 

wherefore ? wlierefore ? tell me why 
Does she repeat tha: doleful cry .^ " 

IX. 
" I cannot tell : I wish I could ; 
For the true reason no one knows ; 
Rut would you gladly view the spot. 
The spot to which she goes ; 
The hillock like an infant's grave, 
Tile pond — and Thorn, so old and gray; 
Pass by her di or — 'tis seldom shut — 
And, if you see her in her hut- 
Then to the spot away! 

1 never heard of such as dnre 
Appr'iacli the spot when she is there' 

X. 

" But wherefore to the mountain-top 
Can tliis unhappy Woman go, 
Wiiatever star is in the skies. 
Whatever wind may blow .? " 
" Full twenty years are past and gor.v 
Since she (her name is Martlia Kay) 
Oave with a maiden's true L^ood-will 
Her company to Stephen Hill; 
And she was blithe and gay, 



1 8 J 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



While friends and kindred all approved 
Of him whom tenderly slic loved. 

XI. 

/ind they had fixed the wedding day, 

The morning that must wed them both j 

But Stephen to another Maid 

Had sworn another oath ; 

And, with this other M.iid, to church 

Unthinking Stephen went — 

Poor Martha ! on that woeful day 

A pang of pitiless dismay 

Into lier soul was sent ; 

A fire was kmdled in her breast, 

Which migiit not burn itself to rest. 

XII. 
They say, full six months after this, 
While yet the summer leaves were green, 
She to the mountain-top would go, 
And there was often seen. 
What could she seek ? — or wish to hide ? 
Her state to any eye was plain : 
She was with child, and slie was mad ; 
Yet often was she sober sad 
From her exceeding pain ; 
O guilty Father — would that death 
Had saved him from that breach of faith ! 

XIII 

Sad case for such a brain to hold 

Communion with a stirring child ! 

Sad case, as you may think, for one 

Who had a brain so wild ! 

Last Christmas-eve we talked of this, 

And gray-haired Wilfred of the glen 

Held that the unborn mfant wrought 

About its mother's heart, and brought 

Her senses back again : 

And, when at last her time drew near. 

Her looks were calm, her senses clear, 

XIV 

More know I not, I wish I did. 

And it should all be told to you ; 

For what became of this poor child 

No mortal ever knew ; 

Nay— if a child to her was born 

No earthly tongue could ever tell ; 

And if 'twas born alive or dead. 

Far less could this with proof be said ; 

But some remember well 

That Martha Kay about this time 

Would up the mountain often climb. 



And all that winter, when at night 
The wind blew from the mountain -peak, 



'Twas worth your while, though in th« 

dark, 
The churchyard path to seek : 
For many a time and oft were heard 
Cries coming from the mountain head. 
Some plainly living voices were ; 
And others, I've heard many swear, 
Were voices of the dead : 
I cannot think, whate'er they say, 
They had to do with Martha Kay. 



But that she goes to this old Thorn, 
'J'he Thorn which I described to you, 
And there sits in a scarlet cloak, 
I will be sworn is true. 
For one day with my telescope. 
To view the ocean wide and bright, 
When to this country first 1 came, 
Ere I had heard of Martha's name, 
I climbed the mountain's height; — 
A storm came on, and 1 could see 
No object higher than my knee. 



'Twas mist and ram, and storm and rain j 

No screen, no fence could I discover ; 

And then the wind ! in sooth, it was 

A wind full ten tmies over. 

I looked around, 1 thought I saw 

A jutting crag,— and off I ran, 

Head-foremost, through the diiving rain. 

The shelter of the crag to gain j 

And, as i am a man. 

Instead of jutting crag, I found 

A Woman seated on the ground. 

XVIII. 

I did not speak — I saw her face ; 

Her face ! — it was enough for me', 

1 turned about and heard her cry, 

' Oh misery ! oh misery ! ' 

And tliere slie sits, until the moon 

Through half the clear blue sky will go \ 

And, wiien the little breezes make 

The waters of the pond to shake. 

As all the country know. 

She shudders, and you hear her cry, 

' Oh misery ! oh misery ! ' " 



" But what's the Thorn ? and what the 

pond? 
And what the hill of moss to her t 
And what the creeping breeze that comes 
The little pond to stir?" 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



»»3 



" I cannot tell ; 'but some will say 

She hanged her baby on the tree ; 

Some say she drowned it in the pond, 

Which is a little step beyond : 

13iit all and each agree, 

'J'he little Babe was buried there. 

Beneath that hill of moss so fair. 

XX. 

I've heard, the moss is spotted red 

With drops of that poor infant's blood ; 

But kill a new-born infant thus, 

I do not think she could ' 

Some say, if to the pond you go, 

And fix on it a steady view, 

The shadow of a babe you trace, 

A baby and a baby's face. 

And that it looks at you ; 

Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain 

The baby looks at you again. 



And some had sworn an oath that she 
Should be to public justice brought j 
And for the little infant's bones 
With spades they would have sought. 
But instantly the hill of moss 
Before their eyes began to stir ! 
And, for full fifty yards around, 
'J'he grass — it shook upon the ground 
Vet all do still aver 
Tiie little liabe lies buried there, 
Beneath that hill of moss so fair. 

XXII. 

I cannot tell how this may be, 
But i)lain it is the Thorn is bound 
With heavy tufts of moss that strive 
To drag it to the ground ; 
And this I know, full many a time. 
When she was on the mountain high, 
Bv day, and in the silent night. 
When all the stars shone clear and bright, 
That I have heard her cry, 
' Oh misery I oh misery ' 
Oh woe is me ! oh misery I ' " 
1798. 



XXIV. 

HART-LEAP WELL. 

Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, 
about five miles from Riclimond in York- 
shire, and near the side of the road that leads 
from Richmond to Askrisc;. Its name is de- 
rived from a remarkable Chase, the memory 
•f which is preserved by the monuments 



spoken of in the second part of the following 
Poem, which monuments do now exist as I 
have there described them. 

The Knight had ridden ('own from Wens 

ley Moor 
With the slow motion of a summer's cloud 
And now, as he approached a vassal's 

doo!-, 
" Bring forth another horse ! " he cried 

aloud. 

" Another horse ! " — That shout the vassal 

heard, 
And saddled his best Steed a comely gray; 
Sir Walter mounted him : he was the third 
Which he had mounted on that gloriou5 

day. 

Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's 

eyes ; 
The horse and horseman are a happy pair ; 
But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies. 
There is a doleful silence in the air. 

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's ILilI, 
That as they galloped made the echoes 

roar ; 
But horse and man are vanished, one and 

all; 
Such race, I think, was never seen before. 

Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, 
(?alls to the few tired dogs that yet remain : 
r.lanch. Swift, and Music noblest of their 

kind, 
i'ollow, and up the weary mountain strain. 

J'he Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid 

them on 
With suppliant gestures and upbraidings 

stern • 
But breath and eyesight fail ; and, one by 

one. 
The dogs are stretched among the mountain 

fern. 

Where is the throng, the tumult of the race i 
The bugles that so jo\^iilly were blown P 
— This chase it looks not like an earthly 

chase; 
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone. 

The poor Hart toils along the mountain 

side; 
I will not stop to tell liow far he Hed, 
Nor will I mention by what death he dleo ; 
But now the Knight beholds him lying 

deadt 



i84 



POEMS or THE iMACFNATIOiV. 



Oismcunting, then, he leaned against a 

tlioin ; 
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor 

boy ; 
He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his 

horn. 
But gazed 'ijwn tlie spoil with silent joy 

Close to the tliorn on which Sir Walter 

leaned 
Stood his dumb partner in this glon(jus 

feat ; 
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned ; j 
And white with foam as if with cleaving 

sleet. 

Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched 
His nostril touched a spring beneath a lull. 
And with the last deep groan his bre?..h had 

fetched 
The waters of the spring were trembling 

still. 

And now, too happy for repose or rest, 
( Never liad living man sucii joyful lot !) 
Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, 

and west. 
And gazed and gar.ed upon that darling 

spot. 

And climbing up the hill— (it was at least 
Four roods of sheer ascent) Sir W.dter found 
Tliree several hoof-marks wh.ch the iuinted 

Ilea St 
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground 

Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, * Till 

now 
Such sight was never seen by human eves 
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty 

brow, 
Down to the very fountain where he lies. 

I'll build a pl(-asurehouse upon this spot. 
And a small arbor made for rural joy . 
'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's 

cot, 
A place of love for damsels that are coy. 

A cunning artist wilT I have to frame 
A basin for that fountain in tlie dell ! 
And they who do make mention of the 

same.^ 
From this day fc.rtli shall call it Hart-Leap 

Well, 

And, gallant Stag! to make thy praises 

known, 
Another monument shall here be raised; 



Three several pillars, each a rough-hewa 

stone. 
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have 

grazed. 

And, in the summer-time when days are 

long, 
I will come hither with my Paramour; 
And with the dancers and the minstrel's 

song 
We will make merry in that pleasant bower. 

Till the foundations of the mountains fail 
My mansion witli its arbor shall endure; — 
The joy of them who till the fields of .Swale, 
And them who dwell among the woods of 
Ure I " 

Then home he went, and left the Hart, 

stone-dead. 
With breathless nostrils stretched above the 

spring. 
- Soon did the Knight perform what he 

had said ; 
And far and wide the fame thereof did ring. 

r.re thrice the Moon into her port had 

steered, 
A cup of stone received the living well ; 
Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter 

reared, 
And built a house (>f pleasure in the dell 

And near the fountain, flowers of stature 
tall 

With trailing plants and trees were inter- 
twined, — 

Which soon composed a little sylvan hall, 

A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. 

And thither, when the summer days wer« 

long. 
Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour; 
And with the dancers and the minstiera 

song 
Made merriment within that pleasant 

bower. 
The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of 

time, 

And his bones he in his paternal vale. — 
And there is matter for a second rhyme, 
And I to this would add another tale. 

PART SECOND. 

The moving accident is not my trade ; 
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts • 
'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, 
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts 



POEMS OF THE /MAC/NAJ'iOAr. 



1S5 



As I from Hawcs to Richmond did repair 
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell 
Three aspens at three corners of a square; 
And one, not four yards distant, near a well. 

What this imported I could ill-divine : 
Ajid, pulling now the rein my horse to stop, 
I saw three pillars standing in a line, — 
The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top. 

The trees were gray, with neither arms nor 

head ; 
Half wasted the square mound of tawny 

green ; 
Fo that you just might say, as then I said, 
'• Here in old time the hand of man hath 

been.'' 

I looked upon the hill both far and nes ■, 
More doleful place did never eye survey ; 
It seemed as if the spring-time came not 

here, 
And Nature here were willing to decay. 

I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, 
When one, who was in sheplierd's garb at- 
tired, 
Came up the hollow : — him did I accost, 
And what this place might be 1 then m- 
quired. 

The Shepherd stopped, and that same story 
told 

Which in my former rhyme I have re- 
hearsed. 

"A jolly place," said he, " in time of old! 

But something ails it now : the spot is curst. 

You see these lifeless stumps of aspen 

wood — 
Some say that they are beeches, others 

elms — 
These were the bower ; and here a mansion 

stood. 
The finest palace of a hundred realms ! 

The arbor does its own condinon tell ; 
You see the stones, the fountain, and the 

stream : 
But as to thfe jireat Lodge ! you might as 

well 
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. 

There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor 

sheep. 
Will wet his lips within that cup of stone ; 
And oftentimes, wlien all are fast asleep, 
This water doth send forth a dolorous 

groan. 



L 



Some say that here a murder has been done 
And blood cries out for blood ; but, for mv 

part, ^ 

I've guessed, when I've been sitting ip th« 

sun, 
That it was all for that unhappy Hart 

What thoughts must through the creature's 

brain have past ! 
Even from the topmost stone, upon ihc 

steep. 
Are but three bounds— and look, Sir. at th.s 

last— 
O Master! it has been a cruel leap. 

For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race ; 
And in my simj)le mind we cannot tell 
What cause the Hart might have to love 

this place. 
And come and make his deathbed near Mie 

well. 

Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank^ 
Lulled by the fountain in the sunnncr-tide ; 
This water was perhaps the first he drank ' 
When he had wandered from his mother's 
side. 

In April here beneath the flowering thorn 
He heard the birds their morning carols 
^ sing; [born 

And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was 
Not half a furlong from that self-same 
sprmg. 

Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant 

shade ; 
The sun on drearier hollow never shone ; 
So will it be, as I have often said, 
Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are 

gone." 

" Gray-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken 

vvcli ; 
Small difference lies b twecn thy < reed and 

mme : 
This Beast not unobserved bv Nature fell ; 
His death was mourned by symijathy divine. 
The Bemg, that is m the clouds and air. 
That IS in the green leaves among the 

groves, 
Mamtains a deep and reverential care 
For the unoffendmg creatures whom he 

loves.>> 

The pleasure-house is dust ;— behmd, before, 
This is no common waste, no common 

gloom ; 
But Nature, in due course of time, once 

more 
Shall here put on her beauty and her bloora 



i86 



PGEMS OF THE IMAGINATIOl^. 



She leaves tliese objects to a slow decay, 
That what we are, and have been, iiuiy be 

known ; 
But at the cuining of the milder day, 
These monuments shall all be overgrown. 

One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, 
Taught both by what she shows, and what 
— conceals ; 

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 
With sorrow of the meanest thing that 
feels." 
iSoo. 



SONG AT THE FEAST OF 
BROUGHAM CASTLE, 

UPON THE RESTORATION OF LOUD CLIP 
FORD, THE SHEPHERD, TOTHE ESTATES 
AND HONORS OE HIS ANCESTORS. 

High m the breathless Hall the Minstrel 

sate, 
And Emont's murmur mingled with the 

Song. — 
The words cf ancient time I thus translate, 
A festal strain that hath been silent long:— 

" From town to town, from tower to tower, 

The red rose is a gladsome flower. 

Her thirty years of winter past, 

The red rose is revived at last , 

She lefts her head for endless spring, 

For everlasting blossomuig : 

Both roses flourish, red and white : 

In love and sisterly delight 

The two that were at strife are blended, 

And all old troubles now are aided. — 

Joy ! joy to both ! but most to her 

Who is the flower of Lancaster ! 

Behold her how She smiles to-day 

On this great throng, this bright array I 

Fair greeting dotli she send to all 

From every Cdrner of the hall , 

Both chiefly Irom above the board 

Where sits in state our rightful Lord, 

A Clifford to his own restored ! 

They came with banner, spear, and 
siueld , j 

And it was proved in Bosworth-field 
Not long the Avenger was withstood — 
Eartli helped him with the cry of blood : 
St George was for us, and the might 
Ot blessed Angels crowned vlie right. 



I-oiid voice the Land has uttered forth, 
Wc 'eldest in the faithful north . 
Our fields rejoice, our mountains rinp, 
Our streamfi proclaim a welcoming 
Our strong abodes and castles see 
The glory of their loyalty. 

How glad is Skipton at thir, hour 
Though lonely, a acsertcd "."ower , 
Knight, squire, and yeoman, pa;:c and 

groom 
We have them at the feast of Brorph'm 
How glad Pendragon— though the sice) 
Of years be on her I — She shall reap 
A taste of this great pleasure, viewing 
As in a dream her own renewing 
Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I do("rr 
Beside her little humble stream ; 
And she that keepeth watch and wnrd 
Her statelier Eden's course to guard ; 
They both are happy at this hour, 
Though each is but a lonely Tower : — 
But here is perfect joy and pride 
For one fair House by Emont's side, 
This day, distinguished without peer 
To see her Master and to cheer — 
Him, and his Lady-mother dear ! 

Oh ! it was a time forlorn 
When the fatherless was born^ 
(rive her wings that she may fly, 
Or she sees her infant die ! 
Swords that are with slaughter wild 
Hunt the Mother and tlie Child. 
Who will take them from the light? 
— Yonder is a man in sight — 
Yonder is a house — but where ? 
No, they must not enter there. 
To the caves, and to the brooks. 
To the clouds of heaven she looks; 
She is speechless, but her e3es 
Pray in ghostly agonies. 
Blissful Mary, Mother mild, 
Maid and Mother undehled. 
Save a Mother and her Child ! 

Now who is he that bounds with jo/ 
On Carrock's side, a Shephcrd-iioy P 
No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pa* 
IJght as the wind along the grass. 
Can this be He who hither cam::; 
In secret, like a smothered flame t 
O'er whom such thankful tears were shed 
For shelter, and a poor man's bread ! 
God loves the Child ; and God hath willed 
That those dear words should be fulfilled, 
The Lady's v;ords, \ -nen forced away 
The last sii£ to her Babe did say : 



PO'^tJfS OF THE I MAG FN A T/OjV. 



t87 



•My own, my own, thy Fellow-gucit 
I may not be ; but rest thee, rest, 
For lowly bhcpherd's life is bjst 1 ' 

Alas ! when evil men are strong 
No life is sood, no pleasure long. 
The Boy must part from Mosedale's groves, 
Ami leave Blencathara's rugged coves, 
And quit the flowers that summer brings 
To Cdenderamakin's lofty springs ; 
Must vanish, and his careless cheer 
Be turned to heaviness and fear. 
—Give Sir Lancelot Threlkcld praise 
Hear it, good man, old in days ! 
Thou tree of covert and of rest 
r^ir tliis young T.ird that is distrcst ; 
Among thy branches safe he lay, 
And he was free to sport and play, 
When falcons were abroad iox prey. 

A recreant harp, that sings of fear 
And heaviness in Clifford's car ! 
i said, when evil men are strong. 
No life is good, no pleasure long, 
A weak and cowartlly imtnith ! 
Our Clifford was a happy Youth, 
And thankful througli a weary time. 
That brought him up to manhood's prime. 
— Again he wanders forth at will, 
And tends a flock from hill to hill : 
His garb is humljle ; ne'er was seen 
Such garb with such a noble mien ; 
Among the shepherd grooms no mate 
Hath he, a child of strength and state ! 
Yet lacks not friends for simple glee, 
Nor yet for higher sympathy. 
To his side the fallow-deer 
Came, and rested without fear ; 
The eagle, lord of land and sea, 
Stooped down to pay him fealty ; 
And both the undying fish that swim 
Through Bowscalc-tarn did wait on him ; 
Tlie pair were servants of his eye 
In their immortality ; 
And glancing, gleaminr^, dark or bright, 
Moved to and fro, for his delight. 
He knew the rocks which Angels iiaunt 
Upon the mountains visitant ; 
He hath kenned them taking wing : 
And into caves where Fairies sing 
He hath entered ; and been told 
By Voices how men lived of old. 
Among the heavens his eye can see 
The face of thing that is to be ; 
And, if that men report hmi right, 

II His tongue could whis]-)cr weirds of might. 

■ »— Now another day is come. 



He hath thrown aside his crook, 
And hath buried deep his book ; 
.'\rmor rusting in his Iialls 
On the blood of Clifford colls ;— 
' Quell the Scot,' exclaims the LauL- 
Bear me to the heart of France, 
Is the longing of the Shield- 
Tell thy name, tliou trembling Field j 
Field of death, where'er tliou be, 
(ii'oan thou with our victory ! 
Haj-ipy day, and mighty hour, 
VVlien our Shepherd, in his power, 
Mailed and horsed, with lance and svtrord, 
To his ancestors restored. 
Like a re-appearing Star, 
Like a glory from afar, 
First shall head the flock of war ! " 

Alas ! the impassioned minstrel did not 

know 
I low, by Heaven's grace, tliis Clifford's heart 

was framed : 
How he, long forced in humble walks to go. 
Was softened into feeling, siH>thed, and 

tamed. 

Love had be found m huts where poor men 

he ; 
^fis daily teachers had been woods and \ \U, 
'J'he silence that is in the starry sky, 
Tiic sleep that is among the lonely hills. 

In him the savage virtue of the Race, 
Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were 

deati : 
Nor did he change , but kept in lofty place 
The wisdom which adversity had bred. 

Glad were the vales, and every cottage- 
hearth ; 

The Siiephcrd-lord was honored more and 
more ; 

And, ages after he was laid in earth, 

'• Tlie good Lord Clifford" was the name 
he bore. 
1S07 



XXVI. 

LINES, 

composei) a few miles above ttntkrn 
aubey, on revisiting the banks oh 
the wye during a tour. 
July 13, 1798. 

Five years have past, five suinm:rs, with 

the length 
Of five long winters ! and again I h&ir 



i88 



POEMS OF THE TMAGfNATION. 



These waters, rolling from their nioiintain- 

sprint;s 
With a soft inland murmur. — Once a,c;ain 
Do I behold these steej) and lofty cliffs, 
'Jliat on a wild secluded scene inijn-ess 
Tliouglits of more deep secluaion ; and con- 
nect 
The landscape witii tlie quiet of the sky. 
The day 15 come whtn I again repose 
Here, under t!>is dark sycamore, and view 
These plots of cottagt-ground, these orchard- 

tirtts, 
Which at this season, with their unripe 

Irints, 
Are cliid in one green luie, and lose them 

selves 
'Mid groves and cx)j)scs. Once again 1 ree 
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little 

hnes 
Of siwrtive wood run wild : these pastoral 

farms, 
Green to tha very door ; and wreaths of 

smoke 
Sent up, in silence, from amoiig the trees ! 
With some uncertain notice, as might seem 
Of vagrant dwellers in the liou^eless woods, 
Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire 
The Hermit sits alone. 

These beaiitcous forms 
Through a long absence, have not been to me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
I>ut oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; 
And passing even into my purer mind. 
With tranquil restoration : — feelings too 
Of unremembered pleasure such, perhaps, 
As have no slight or trivial influence 
On that best portion of a good man's life, 
His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
Of kindness and of love.' Nor less, I trust, 
To them I may have owed another gift. 
Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood. 
In which the burthen of the mystery, 
In which the heavy and the weary weight 
Of all this unintelligible world. 
Is lightened : — tliat serene and blessed mood, 
In which the affections gently lead us on, — 
Until, the breath of this corporeal fmme 
/\nd even the motion of our human blood 
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
In body, and become a living soul : 
While with an eye made qu.iet by the power 
Of harmony, and the derp power of joy, 
We see into the life of things. 



If this 
Be but a vain oclief, yet, oh ! how oft — 
In darkness and amid the many shapes 
Of joyless daylight ; when the fretful stir 
Unjjrofitable, and the fever of the world. 
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart«» 
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 

sylvan Wye ! tiiou wanderer thro' tha 

woods. 
How often has my spirit turned to thee ! 

And now, with gleams of half cxlin- 

guishcd thought. 
With many recognitions dim and faint, 
And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 
The picture of the mind revives again ; 
While here I stand, not only with the sense 
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing 

thoughts 
Tliat in tiiis moment there is life and food 
For future years. And so I dare to hope, 
Tiiough changed, no doubt, from what I 

was when first 

1 came among these hills ; when like a roe 
1 bounded o'er the mountains, by the s-ides 
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 
Wherever nature led : more like a man 
Flying from something that he dreads, than 

one 
Who sought tlie thing he loved. For na- 

tine then 
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish clays. 
And their glad animal movements all cone 

by) 
To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 
What then I was. The sounding cataract 
ITnnntcd me like a passion : the tall rock, 
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy 

wood. 
Their colors and their forms, were then to 

me 
An appetite ; a feeling and a love, 
That had no need of a remoter charm, 
l-v thought supplied,. nor any interest 
Unborrowed from the eye.-f-That time tt 

past, 
And all its aching joys are now no more. 
And all its dizzy raptures. ' Not for this 
Faint 1, nor mourn nor murmur; othei 

gifts ■ 
Have followed ; for such loss, I would be- 
lieve. 
Abundant recompense. For I have learned 
To look on nature, not as in the hour 
Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing ofteO 

times 
The still, sad music of humanity. 



POEMS OF THE /AfAGTA^ATTON'. 



189 



Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample 

power 
To chast-^n and subdue. And I have felt 
A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
Of something far more deeply interfused, 
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns. 
And the round ocean and tlie livinfj air, 
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : 
A motion and a spirit, that impels 
All thinking things, all objects of all 

thought, 
And rolls through all things. Therefore 

am I still 
A lover of the meadows and the woods. 
And mountains ; and of all that we behold 
lMo!n this green earth ; of all the mighty 

world 
Of eye, and ear, — both what they half cre- 
ate, 
And what perceive ; well pleased to recog- 
nize 
In nature and the language of the sense, 
'llie anchor of my purest thoughts, the 

nurse, 
Th » guide, the guardian of my heart, and 

soul 
Of id! my moral being. 

Nor perchance. 
If I were not thus taugiit, should 1 the 

more 
Suffer my genial spirits to decay : 
For thou art with me here upon the banks 
Of this fair river; thou my dearest Fri^Mid, 
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I 

catch 
The language of my former heart, and read 
My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
or thy wild eyes. Oh 1 yet a little while 
May I behold in thee wh;it I was once, 
My dear, dear Sister ! and this prayer I 

make 
'Knowing that Nature never did betray 
'j'he heart that loved her ; 'tis her ])rivi1cge 
'I'hrough all the years of this our life, to 

lead 
From jov to joy : for she can so inform 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil 

tongues, 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish 

m n, 
Mor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
The dreary intercourse of daily life, 
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 



Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the 

moon 
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 
And let the misty mountain-winds be free 
To blcnv against thee : and, in after years, 
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
Into a sober pleasure ; when thy mind 
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! 

then. 
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, 
Should be thy portion, with what liealing 

thoughts 
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me. 
And these my exhortations ! N( r, per- 

chance — 
If I should be where I no more can hear 
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes 

these gleams 
Of past existence — wilt thou then forget 
That on the banks of this delightful stream 
We stood together; and tliat I, so long 
\ worshipper of Nature, liitlicr came 
Unwearied in that service : rather say 
With warmer love — oh I with far deeper 

zeal 
Of holier love. Nor wilt tliou then forget. 
That after many wanderings, many years 
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty 

cliffs, 
.•\nd this green pastoral landscape were to 

me 
More dear, both for themselves and for thy 

sake 1 
17.J8. 



XXVII. 

It is no .Spirit who from heaven hath flown, 

And is descending on his embassy ; 

Nor Traveller gone fio.n earth the heavens 

to espy ! 
'Tis Hesperus — there he stands witli glitter 

ing crown, 
First admonition that the sun is down ! 
For yet it is broad daylitrht : clouds pass 

by; 
A few are near him still— and now the sky. 
He hath it to himself— 'tis all his own. 
O most ambitious Star ! an incjuest wrought 
Within me when I recognized thy liglit; 
A moment I was startled at the sight : 
And, while I gazed, there cam*" to me a 

thought 



igo 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION: 



That I might step beyond my natural race 
As tliou seem'st now to do ; might one day 

trace 
Some ground not mine ; and, strong her I 

strength above, i 

My Soul, an Apparition in the place, j 

Tread there with steps that no one shall j 

reprove ! i 

1803. 1 

XXVIII. 

FRENCH REVOLUTION, 

AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS 
COMMENCEMENT. 

REPRINTED FROM "THE FRIEND." 

Oh ! pleasant exercise of hope and joy ! 
For mighty were the auxiliars which then 

stood 
Upon our side, we who were strong in love ! 
Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, 
But to be young was very heaven ! — oh ! 

times 
In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways 
Of custom, law, and statute, took at once 
The attraction of a country in romance ! 
When Reason seemed the most to assert 

her riglits. 
When most intent on making of herself 
A prime Enchantress — to assist the work 
Wliich then was going forward in her 

name ! 
Not favored spots alone, but the whole 

earth, 
The beauty wore of promise, that which 

sets 
(As at some moment might not be unfelt 
Among the bowers of paradise itself) 
The budding rose above the rose full blown. 
Wliat temper at the prospect did not wake 
To happiness unthought of ? The inert 
Were roused, and lively natures rapt away ! 
Tliey who had fed their childhood upon 

dreams, 
The playfellows of fancy, who liad made 
All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and 

strength 
Their ministers^ — ^y\\o in lordly wise !iad 

stirred 
Among the grandcjt objects of the sense. 
And dealt vrith whatsoever they found 

there 
As if they had v'.thin some lurking right 
To wield it {--they, too, who, of gentle 

iiiood. 



Had watched all gentle motions, and to 

these 
Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers 

more mild, 
And in the region of their peaceful selves :— 
Now was it that botli found, the Aieek and 

loftv 
Did both find, helpers to their heart's de- 
sire, 
And stuff at hand, plastic as they could 

wish ; 
Were called upon to exercise their skill, 
Not in Utopia, subterranean fields, 
Or some secreted island. Heaven knowp. 

where ! 
But in tlie very world, which is the world 
(>f all of us, — the place wlit-ie in the end 
We find our happiness, or not at all I 

iSOv 



XXIX. 



Yes, it was the Mountain Echo, 
Solitary, clear, profound. 
Answering to the shouting Cuckoo, 
Giving to her sound for suimd ! 

Unsolicited reply 

To a babbling wanderer sent : 

Like her ordinary cry. 

Like — but oh, how different ! 

Hears not also mortal Life.? 
Hear not we, unthinking Creatures \ 
Slaves of folly, love, or strife— 
Vcnces of two different natures ? 

Have not we too ? — yes, we have 
Answers, and we know not wlience: 
Echoes from beyond the grave. 
Recognized intelligence ! 

Such rebounds our inward ear 
Catches sometimes from afar — 
Listen, ponder, hold them dearj 
For of (lod, — of God they are. 
1806. 



XXX. 

TO A SKY -LARK 

Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky \ 
Uost thou despise the earth where cares 

abound ? 
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and 

eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? 



POEMS OP THE IMAGINATION. 



19 



Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 
Those quivering wings composed, that music 
still ! 

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ; 
A privacy of glorious light is thine ; 
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a 

fkiod 
Of harmony, with instinct more divine ; 
Type of the wise who soar, but never 

roam ; 
True to the kindred points of Heaven and 

Home ! 
1825. 



XXXI. 

LAODAMIA. 

" With sacrifice before the rising morn 

Vows have I made by fruitless hope in- 
spired : 

And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades 
forlorn 

Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I re- 
quired : 

Celestial pity I again implore : — 

Restore him to my sight— great Jove, re- 
store ! » 

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 
With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts 

her hands ; 
While, like the sun emerging from a cloud, 
Her countenance brightens — and her eye 

expands ; 
Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature 

E;rows ; 
And she expects the issue in repose. 

O terror ! what hath she perceived ? — O 

jov! 
What doth she look on ? — whom doth she 

behold ? 
Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy? 
His vital presence ? his corporeal mould ? 
[t is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis He ! 
And a God leads him, winged Mercury ! 

Mild Hermes spake — and touched her with 

his wand 
That calms all fear : " Such grace hath 

crowned thy prayer, 
Laodamia ! that at Jove's command 
Thy Husband walks tlie paths of upper air : 
He comes to tarry with thee three hours' 

space ; 
Accept the gift, behold liim face to fate ! " 



Forth sprang th.e impassioned Queen her 

Lord to clasp : 
Again that consummation she essayed : 
But unsubstantial Form eludes h.er grasp 
As often as that eager grasp was made. 
The Phantom parts — but parts to re-unite, 
And re-assume his place before her sight. 

" Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone ! 
Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice; 
This is our palace, — yonder is thy throne : 
Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will 

rejoice. 
Not to appal me have the gods bestowed 
This precious boon ; and blest a sad abode." 

" Great Jove, Laodamia I doth not leave 
His gifts imperfect : — Spectre though I be 
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive ; 
But in reward of thy fidelity. 
And something also did my worth obtain ; 
For fearless virtue bringcth boundless gain. 

Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold 

That the first Greek who touched the Tro- 
jan strand 

Should die ; but me the threat could not 
withhold : 

A generous cause a victim did demand ; 

And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain ; 

A self-devoted chief — by Hector slain." 

"Supreme of Heroes — bravest, noblest, 

best! 
Thy matchless courage 1 bewail no more, 
Which then, when tens of thousands were 

deprest 
By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore ; 
Thou found'st — and I forgive thee — iiere 

thou art — 
A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 

But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 
Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave ; 
And he, whose power restores thee, hath 

decreed 
Though should'st elude the malice of the 

grave : 
Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 
As when their breath enriched Thessalian 

air. 

No Spectre greets me — no vain Shadow 
this ; 

Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my 
side ! 

Give, on this well known couch, one nup- 
tial kiss 

To me, this day, a second time thy bride ! " 



192 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Jove frowned in heaven : the conscious 

Parcaj threw 
Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 

*'■ This visage tells me that my doom is 

past : 
Nor should the change be mourned, even 

if the joys 
Of sense were able to return as fast 
And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys 
Those raptures duly— Erebus disdains : 
Calm pleasures there abide — majestic pains. 

Be taught, O faithful Consort, to control 
Rebellious passion : for the Gods approve 
The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul ; 
A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 
Thy transports moderate ; and meekly 

mourn 
When I depart, for brief is my sojourn — " 

"Ah, wherefore? — Did not Hercules by 

force 
Wrest from the guardian Monster of the 

tomb 
Alcestis, a reanimated corse. 
Given back to dwell on earth in vernal 

bloom .? 
Medea's spells dispersed the weight of 

years, 
And iEson stood a youth 'mid youthful 

peers. 

The Gods to us are merciful — and they 
Yet furtlier may relent : for mightier far 
Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the 

sway 
Of magic potent over sun and star, 
Is love, though oft to agony distrest, 
And though his favorite seat be feeble 

woman's breast. 

But if thou goest, I follow — " "Peace!" 
he said, — 

She looked upon him and was calmed and 
cheered ; 

Tlie ghastly color from his lips had fled ; 

In his deportment, shape, and mien, ap- 
peared 

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace. 

Brought from a pensive though a happy 
place. 

lie spake of love, such love as spirits feel 
In worlds whose course is equable and pure ; 
No fears to beat away — no strife to heal — 
The past unsigh'd for, and the future sure ; 
Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 
Revived, witli finer liarmony pursued ; 



Of all that is most beauteous— imaged there 
In happier beauty ; more pellucid streams. 
An ampler ether, a diviner air, 
And fields invested with purpureal gleams ; 
Climes which the sun, who sheds the 

brightest day 
Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 

Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath 

earned 
That privilege by virtue. — " 111," said he, 
" The end of man's existence I discerned, 
Who from ignoble games and revelry 
Could draw, when we had parted, vain de- 
light. 
While tears were thy best pastime, day and 

night ; 
And while my youthful peers before my 

eyes 
(Each hero following his peculiar bent) 
Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise 
By martial sports, — or, seated in the tent. 
Chieftains and kings in council were de- 
tained ; 
What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained. 

The wished-for wind was given : — I then 

revolved 
The oracle, upon the silent sea; 
And, if no worthier led the way, resolved 
That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 
The foremost prow in pressing to the 

strand, — 
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan 

sand. 

Vet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang 
When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife! 
On thee too fondly did my memory hang, 
And on the joys we shared in mortal life, — 
The paths which \si. had trod — these foun- 
tains, flowers ; 
My new-planned cities, and unfinished 

towers. 
But should suspense permit the Foe to cry, 
' Behold they tremble ! — haughty their 

array 
Yet of their number no one dares to die.?* 
In soul 1 swept the indignity away : 
Old frailties then recurred : — but lofty 

thought 
In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 

And Thou, though strong in love, art all tot 

weak 
In reason, in self-government too slow ; 
I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 
Our blest re-union in the shades below. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



93 



The invisible world with thee hath sympa- 
thized ; 
Be thy affection raised and solemnized. 

Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend — 
Seeking a higher object. Love was given, 
Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that 

end ; 
For this the passion to excess was driven — 
That self migiit be annulled ; her bondage 

prove 
The fetters of a dream, opposed to love." — 

Aloud she shrieked! for Hermes re-appears! 
Round the dear Shade she would have 

clung — 'tis vain : 
The hours are past — too brief had they 

been years; 
And him no mortal effort can detain : 
Swift, toward the realms tiiat know not 

earthly day, 
He through the portal takes his silent way, 
And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse She 

lay. 

Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved. 
She perished ; and, as for a wilful crime. 
By the just Gods whom no weak pity moved, 
Was doomed to wear out her appointed 

time. 
Apart from happy Ghosts, that gather 

flowers 
Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. 

— Yet tears to human suffering are due ; 
And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown 
Are mourned by man, and not by man 

alone, 
As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 
Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) 
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 
From out the tomb of him for whom she 

died. 
And ever, when such stature they had 

gained 
That Ilium's walls were subject to their 

view. 
The trees' tall summits withered at the 

sight ; 
A constant interchange of growth and 

blight ! * 
1814. 

* For the account of tliese long-liverl trees, 
sec Pliny's Natural History, lib. xvi. can. 44 ; 
arH for the fentiires in the character of Pro- 
tesilaus see the Iphigenia in Aulis of Euri- 
pides 



XXXII. 

DION. 

(see PLUTARCH.) 

Serene, and fitted to embrace, 
Wliere'er he turned, ?. swan-like grace 
Of hraightiness without pretence. 
And to unfold a still magnificence. 
Was princely Dion, in the power 
And beauty of his happier hour. 
And what pure homage then did wait 
On Dion's virtues ! while the lunar beam 
Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere, 
P>11 round him in the grove of Academe, 
Softening their inbred dignity austere— 
That he, not too elate 
With self-sufficing solitude. 
But with majestic lowliness endued, 

Might in the universal bosom reign, 
And from affectionate observance gain 
Help, under every change of adverse fate. 

n. 
Five thousand warriors — O the rapturous 

day ! 
Each crowned with flowers, and armed with 

spear and shield. 
Or ruder weapon which their course migiit 

yield, 
To Syracuse advance in bright array. 
Who leads them on ? — The anxious people 

see 
Long-exiled Dion marching at their head, 
He also crowned with flowers of Sicily, 
And in a white, far-beaming, corslet clad ! 
Pure transport undisturbed by doubt or 

fear 
The gazers feel ; and, rushing to the plain. 
Salute those strangers as a Iioly train 
Or blest procession (to the Immortals dear) 
That brought their precious liberty again. 
Lo ! when the gates are entered, on each 

hand, 
Dowm the long street, rich goblets filled 

with wine 

In seemly order stana, 
On tables set, as if for rites divine ; — 
And, as the great Deliverer marches bv, 
He looks on festal ground with fruits 

bestrown ; 
And flowers are on his person thrown 

In boundless prodigality ; 
Nor doth the general voice abstain fron 

prayer, 
Invoking Dion's tutelary care, 
As if a very Deity he were 1 



T94 



POEMS OF THE imagination: 



" 



III. 

Mourn, hills and groves of Attica ! and 

mourn 
Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic urn ! 
Mourn, and lament foi him whose spirit 

dreads 
Your once sweet memory, studious walks 

and shades ! 
For him who to divinity aspired, 
Not on the breath of popular applause. 
But through dependence on the sacred laws 
Framed in tiie sctiools where Wisdom 

dwells retired. 
Intent to trace the ideal path of right 
(More fair than heaven's broad causeway 

paved with stars) 
Which Dion learned to measure with sub- 
lime delight : — 
But He hath overleaped the eternal bars : 
And, following guides whose craft holds no 

consent 
With aught that breathes the ethereal cle- 
ment, 
Hath stained the robes of civil power with 

blood, 
Unjustly shed, though for the public good. 
Whence doubts that came too late, and 

wishes vain. 
Hollow excuses, and triumphant pain ; 
And oft his cogitations sink as low 
As, through the abysses of a joyless heart, 
The heaviest iilummct of dcsjiair can go — 
But whence that sudden check ? that fearful 
start ! 
He hears an uncouth sound — 
Anon his lifted eyes 
Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bounl, 
A Shape of more than mortal size 
And hideous aspect, stalking round and 
round. 
A woman's garb the Phantom wore. 
And fiercely swcjit the marble floor, — 
Like Auster whirling to and fro. 
His force on Caspian foam to try; 
Or Boreas when he scours the snow 
That skins the jilains of Thcssaly, 
Or when aloft on Mienalus he stops 
His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops ! 



IV. 



So, but from toil less sign of profit rea]^Jn£ 
The sullen Spectre to her purpose bowed, 

Sweeping — vehemently sweeping — 
Nu pause admitted, no design avowed ! 
•* Avaunt, inexplicable Guest ! — avaunt,'' 



Exclaimed the Chieftain — " let me rather 

see 
The coronal that coiling vipers make; 
The torch that flames with many a lurid 

flake, 
And the long train of dolefr.l pageantry 
Which they behold whom vengeful Furies 

haunt ; 
Who, while they struggle from the scoi.rge 

to flee, 
Move where the blasted soil is not unwrrn, 
And, in their anguish, bear what othci 

minds have borne I " 



But Shapes that come not at an earthly call, 
Will not depart when mortal voices bid ; 
Lords of the visionary eye whose lid, 
Once raised, remanns aghast, and will not 

fall! Inunt 

Ve Gods, thought He, that servile Jnipio- 
Obeys a mystical intei.t 1 
Your Minister would brush away 
The spots that to my soul adhere; 
But should she labor night and day, 
They will not, cannot disappear; 
\\'hence angry pcrturUitious,— and that 

look 
Which no Philosophy can brook ! 

VI. 

Ill-fated Chief I there are whose hopes are 

built 
Upon the ruins of thy glorious name; 
W'ho, through the portal of one mouicnt's 

guilt. 
Pursue thee with their deadly aim! 
O matchless jierfidy ! portentous lust 
Of monstrous crime !— that horror-striking 

blade. 
Drawn in defiance of [he Gods, hath had 
The noble Syracusan low in dust I 
Shudder'd the walls — the marble city v.'ejH - 
And sylvan places heaved a jiensive sigh; 
But in calm peace the appointed Victim 

slept, 
As he had fallen in magn nimity ; 
Of spirit too capacious to require 
That Destiny her course should change ; toe 

just 
To his own native greatness to desire 
That wretched boon, days lengthened by 

mistrust. 
So were the hopeless troubles, that involved 
The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved. 
Released from life and cares of princely 

state, 
He left tiiis mora' grafted on his Fate: 



POEMS OP THE IMAGINATI0I7. 



195 



I 



* Him only pleasure leads, and peace at- 
tends, 
Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends, 
Whose means are fair and spotless as his 
ends." 
iSi6. 



XXXIII. 

THE PASS OF KIRKSTONE. 



Within the mind strong fancies work, 

A deep delight the bosom thrills. 

Oft as I pass along the fork 

Of these fraternal hills : 

Where, save the rugged road, we find 

No appanage of human kind, 

Nor hint of man ; if stone or rock 

Seem not liis handy-work to mock 

By something cognizably shaped : 

Mockery — or model roughly iicwn, 

And left as if by earthquake strewn, 

Or from the Flood escaped : 

Altars for Druid service fit ; 

( But where no fire was ever lit, 

Unless the glow-worm to the skies 

Thence offer nightly sacrifice) 

Wrinkled Egyptian monument ; 

Green moss-grown tower ; or hoary tent ; 

Tents of a camp that never shall be razed—. 

On which four tliousand years have gazed ! 



Ye plough-shares sparkling on the slopes 1 

Ye snow-white lambs that trip 

Imprisoned 'mid the formal props 

Of restless ownership ! 

Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall 

To feed the insatiate Prodigal 

Lawns, houses, chattels, groves and fields, 

All that the fertile valley ""shields ; 

Wages of folly — baits of crime, 

Of life's uneasy game the stake, 

Flaytliings that keep the eyes awake 

Of drowsy, dotard 'i'ime ; — 

O care ! O guilt !— O vales and plains. 

Here, 'mid his own unvexed domains, 

A Genius dwells, that can subdue 

At once all memory of You, — 

Most potent when mists veil the sky 

Mists that distort and magnify ; 

While the coarse rushes, to the sweeping 

breeze, 
Sigk forth their ancient melodies 1 



LLt to those shriller notes ! — that march 

Perchance was on the blast, 

When, through this Height's inverted arch 

Rome's earliest legion passed I 

— They saw, adventurously impelled, 

And older eyes than theirs beheld, 

Tius block — and yon, whose cluirch-likt 

frame 
Gives to this savage Pass its name. 
Aspiring Road ! that lov'st to hide 
Thy daring in a vapory bourn. 
Not seldom may the hour return 
When thou shalt be my guide : 
And I (as all men may find cause, 
When life is at a weary pause, 
And they have panted up tlie hill 
Of duty with reluctant will) 
Be thankful, even though tired and fainl, 
For the rich bounties of constraint ; 
Whence oft invigorating transports flow 
That choice lacked courage to bestow 1 



My soul was grateful for delight 

That wore a threatening brow ; 

A veil is lifted — can she slight 

The scene that opens now? 

Though habitation none appear, 

'i'he greenness tells, man must be there 

The shelter — that the perspective 

Is of the clime in whicli we live : 

Where Toil pursues liis daily round • 

Where Pity sheds sweet tears— and Love_ 

In woodbine bower or birchen grove. 

Inflicts his tender wound. 

— Who comes not hither ne'er shall know 

How beautiful the world below : 

Nor can he guess how lightly leaps 

Tlie brook adown the rocky steeps. 

Farewell, thou desolate Domain ! 

Hope, pointing to the cultured plain, 

Carols like a shej^herd-boy ; 

And who is she ? — Can that be Joy i 

Who, with a sunbeam for her guide, 

Smoothly skims the meadows wide : 

While Faith, from yonder opening cloud. 

To hill and vale proclaims aloud, 

" Whate'er the weak may dread, the wicket* 

dare, 
Thv lot, O Man, is good, thy portion fairl'' 
kSi;. 



196 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION'. 



XXXIV. 

TO ENTERPRISE. 

Keep for the Young the impassione.. smile 
Shed fro!n thy countenance, as 1 see thee 

stand 
High on tliat chalky cliff of Briton's Isle, 
A slender volume grasping in thy hand — 
( Perchance the pages that relate 
The various turns of Crusoe's fate) — 
Ah, spare the exultmg smile, 
And drop thy p inting finger bright 
As the first fiasli of beacon lic;ht ; 
But neither veil thy head in shadows dim, 
Nor turn thy face away 
From One who, m the evening of his day, 
To thee would offer no presumptuous hymn ' 



Bold Spirit ! who art free to rove 
Among the starry courts of Jove, 
And oft in splendor dost appear 
Embodied to poetic eyes, 
While traversing this nether sphere. 
Where Mortals call thee Enterprise, 
Daughter of Hope! lier favorite Child, 
Wiiom she to young Ambition Ixire, 
When hunter's arrow first defiled 
Tiic grove, and stained tiie turf with gore ; 
Thee winged Fancy took, and nursed 
On board Euphrates' palmy shore. 
And where the mightier Waters burst 
From caves of Indian mountains hoar ! 
She v/rapped thee in a panther's skin ; 
And Thou, thy favorite food to win, 
The flame-eyed eagle oft wouldst scare 
From her rock-fortress in mid air. 
With infant siiout ; and often sweep, 
Paired with the ostrich, o'er the plain: 
Or, tired with sport, wouldst sink asleep 
Upon the couchant lion's mane ! 
With rolling years thy strengtii increased; 
And, far beyond thy. native East, 
To thee, by varying titles known 
As variously thy power was shown, 
Did incense-bearing altars rise 
Which caught the blaze of sacrifice, 
From suppliants panting for the skies 1 



What though this ancient Earth be trod 
No more by step of Demi-god 
Mounting from glorious deed to deed 
As thou from clime to clime didst lead; 
Yet still, the bosom beating high, 
And the hu:.hed farewell of an 



Where no procrastinating gaze 
A last infirmity betrays. 
Prove that thy heaven-descended sway 
Shall ne'er submit to cold decaj. 
By thy divinity impelled, 
The Stripling seeks the tented field : 
The aspiring Virgin kneels : and, pale 
With awe, receives the hallowed veil, 
A soft and tender Heroine 
Vowed to severer discipline : 
Inflamed by thee, the blooming Boy 
Makes of the whistling shrouds a toy, 
And of the ocean's dismal breast 
A play-ground, — or a couch of rest ; 
'Mid the blank world of snow and ice. 
Thou to his dangers dost enchain 
The Chamois-chaser awed in vain 
By chasm or dizzy jirecipice ; 
And hast Thou not with triumph seen 
How soaring Mortals glide between 
Or through the clouds, and brave the light 
With bolder than Icarian flight? 
How they, in bells of crystal, dive- 
Where winds and waters cease to strive— 
For no unholy visitings, 
Among the monsters of the Deep ; 
And ail tlie sad and precious things 
Which there in ghastly silence sleep ? 
Or, adverse tides and currents headed, 
And breathless calms no longer dreaded, 
In never-slackening voyage go 
Straight as an arrow from the bow : 
And, slighting sails and scorning oars, 
Keep faith with Time on distart sliores? 
—Within our fearless reach arc placed 
The secrets of the burning Waste; 
Egyptian tombs unlock their dead, 
Nile trembles at his fountain head; 
Thou speak'st — and lo ! the polar Seas 
Unbosom their last mysteries. 
— But oh! what transports, what sublime 

reward. 
Won from the world of mind, dost thou pre- 
pare 
For philosophic Sage : or high-souled Bard 
Who, for thy service trained in lonely 
woods, [air, 

Hath fed on pageants floating through the 
Or calentured in depth of limpid floods ; 
Nor grieves — tlio' doom'd thro' silent night 

to bear 
The domination of his glorious themes. 
Or struggle in the net-work of thy dreams ! 

HI. 

If there be movements in the Patriot's soifl, 
From source still deeper, and of higher 
worth, 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



[97 



Tis thine tlie quickening impulse to con 

trol, 
And in clue season send the mandate forth ; 
Tliy call a prostrate nation can restore, 
When but a single Mind resolves to crouch 

no more, 

IV. 

Dread Minister of wratli ! 

Who to their destined punishment dost 

urge 
The Pharaohs of the earth the men of 

hardened heart ! 
Not unassisted by the flattering stars, 
Thou strew'st temptation o'er the path 
When they in pomp depart 
With trampling horses and refulgent cars — 
Soon to be swallowed by the briny surge ; 
Or cast, for lingermg death, on unknown 

strands ; 
Or caught amid a whirl of desert sands — 
An army now, and now a living hill 
That a brief while heaves with convulsive 

Throes- 
Then all is still ; 

Or, to forget their madness and their woes. 
Wrapt in a winding-sheet of spotless snows \ 

V. 
Back flows the willing current of my Song 
If to provoke such doom the Impious dare, 
Why should it daunt a blameless prayer ? 
— Bold Goddess ! rangt our Youth among ; 
Nor let thy genuine impulse fail to beat 
In hearts no longer young ; 
Still may a veteran Few have pride 
In thoughts whose sternness makes 

sweet ; 
In fixed resolves by Reason justified; 
That to their object cleave like sleet 
Whitening a pine tree's northern side 
When fields are naked far and wide. 
And withered leaves, from earth': 

breast 
Up-caught in whirlwinds, nowhere can find 



them 



cold 



rest. 



VI. 



But, if such homage thou disdain 

As doth with mellowing years agr 

One rarely absent froni thv train 

More humble favors may obtain 

For thy contented Votarv. 

She, who incites the frolic lambs 

In presence of their heedless dams, 

And to the solitary fawn 

Vouchsafes her lessons, bounteous Nymph 



That wakes the breeze, the sparkling lymph 
Doth hurry to tlie lawn ; 
She, who inspires that strain of ioyanceholy 
Which the sweet Bird, misuamedthe melan 

choly, 
Pours forth in shady groves, shall plead for 

me. 
And vernal morninofs opening bright 
With views of undefined delight. 
And cheerful songs, and suns that shine 
On busy days, with tl-.ankful nights, be mine 

VII. 

But thou. O Goddess ' in thv favorite Isle 

(Freedom's impregnable redoubt. 

The wide eartli's store-house fenced about 

With breakers roaring to the gales 

That stretcli a thousand thousand sails) 

Quicken the slothful, and exalt the vile ! - 

Thy impulse is the life of Fame ; 

Glad Hope would almost cease to be 

If torn from thy society ; 

And Love, when worthiest of his name, 

Is proud to walk the earth with Thee! 



TO 



ON HER FIRST ASCENT TO THE GUMMlt 
OF HELVELLYN. 

Inmate of a mountain dwelling, 
Thou hast clomb aloft, and gazed 
From the watch-towers of Heivellyn ; 
Awed, delighted, and amazed ! 

Potent was the spell that bound thee 
Not unwilling to obey ; 
For blue Ether's arms, flung round thee» 
Stilled the pantings of dismay. 

Lo ! the dwindled woods and meadows ; 
What a vast abyss is there I 
Lo ! the clouds, the solemn shadows, 
And the glistenings — heavenly fair 

And a record of commotion 
Which a thousand ridges yield : 
Ridge, and gulf, and distant ocean 
Gleaming like a silver shield I 

Maiden ! now take flight : — inherit 
Alps or Andes — they are thine ! 
With the morning's roseate Spirit. 
Sweep their length of snowy line: 



T08 



poems; of the TMACmATION 



Or survey their bright dominions 
In the gorgeous colors drest 
Flung from off the purple pinions, 
Evening spreads throughout the west I 
Thine are all the coral fountains 
Warbling in each sparry vault 
0{ the untrodden lunar mountains ; 
Listen to their songs ! — or halt, 
To Niphates' top invited, 
Whither spiteful Satan steered ; 
Or descend where the ark alighted, 
When the green earth re-appeared ; 
For the power of hills is on thee, 
As was witnessed through thine eye 
Then when old Helvellyn won thee 
To confess their majesty ! 
1816. 



XXXVI. 

TO A YOUNG LADY, 

WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAK- 
ING LONG WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 

Dear Child of Nature, let them rail 

— There is a nest in a green dale, 

A harbor and a hold ; 

Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shaltsee 

Thy own heart-stirring days, and be 

A light to young and old. 

There, healthy as a shepherd boy, 

And treading among flowers of joy 

Which at no season fade. 

Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, 

Shalt show us how divine a thuig 

A Woman may be made. 

Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die. 

Nor leave thee, when gray hairs are nigh, 

A melancholy slave; 

IJut an old age serene and bright, 

And lovely as a Lapland night, 

Shall lead thee to thy grave. 

XXXVIl. 

WATER-FOWL. 

•* Let me be allowed '.he aid of verse to de- 
scribe the evolutions whicli these visitants 
soinetinies perform, on a fine day, towards 
the close of winter." — Extract front the 
A uthor'' s Book on tJte Lakes. 
Mark how the feathered tenants of the 

flood, 
With grace of motion that might scarcely 
seem 



Inferior to angelical, prolong 

Their curious pastime ! shaping in mid air 

(And sometnnes with ambitious wing tl«l 

soars 
High as the level of the mountain-tops) 
A circuit ampler than the lake beneath — 
Their own dc ma'n ; but ever, while intent 
On tracing and retracing that large round. 
Their jubilant activity evolves 
Hundreds of curves and circlets, to and fro, 
Upward and downward, progress intricate 
Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed 
Their indefatigable flight. 'Tis done — 
Ten times, or more, 1 fancied it had ceased ; 
But lo 1 the vanished company again 
Ascending : they approach — I hear their 

wings. 
Faint, faint at first ; and then an eager sound, 
Past in a moment — and as faint again ! 
They tempt the sun to sport amid their 

plumes : 
They tempt the water, or the gleaming ice. 
To show them a fair image ; 'tis themselves, 
Tlieir own fair forms, upon the glimmering 

plain. 
Painted more soft and fair as they descend 
Almost to touch ; — then up again aloft. 
Up with a sally and a flash of speed. 
As if they scorned both resting-place and 

rest 1 
1812. 



VIEW FROM THE TOP OF BLACK 
COMB.* 

This Height a ministering Angel might 

select : 
For from the summit of Black Comb 

(dread name 
Derived from clouds and storms!) the 

amplest range 
Of unobstructed prospect mav be seen 
That British ground commands : — low dusky 

tracts. 
Where Trent is nursed, far southward ! 

Cambrian hills 
To the south-west, a multitudinous show ; 
And, in a line of eye-sight linked with these 
The hoary peaks of Scotland that give birth 
To Tiviot's stream, to Annan, Tweed, ani 

Clyde :— 
Crowding the quarter whence the sun come« 

forth 



* Black Com'} stands at the southern exlrem 
ity of Cumberland. 



FORMS OF THE IMACrNAriON. 



99 



Gigantic mountains rough with crags ; be- 
neath, 
Right at tile imperial station's western base 
Main ocean, breaking audibly, and stretched 
Far into silent regions blue and pale ; — 
And visibly engirding Mona's Isle 
Thar, as we lett the plain, before (Tin- sight 
Stood like a lofty mount, uplifting slowly 
(Above the convex of the watery globe) 
Into clear view the cultured fields that streak 
Her habitable shores, but now appears 
A dwindled object, and submits to lie 
At the spectator's feet. — Yon azure ridge. 
Is it a perishable clnud ? Or there 
Do we behold the line of Erin's coast ? 
Land sometimes by the roving shepherd- 
swain 
(Like' the bright confines of another world) 
Not doubtfully perceived. — Look homeward 

now ! 
In depth, in height, in circuit, how serene 
The spectacle, how pure ! — Of Nature's 

works. 
In earth, and air, and earth-embracing sea. 
A revelation infinite it seems ; 
Display august of man's inheritance, 
Of Britain's calm felicity and power. 
1S13. 



THE HAUNTED TREE. 



Those silver clouds collected round the sun 
Ilis mid-day warmth abate not, seeming less 
To overshade than multiply his beams 
I3y soft reflection — grateful to the sky, 
To rocks, fields, woods. Nor doth our 

human sense 
Ask, for its pleasure, screen or canopy 
More ample than the time-dismanllcd Oak 
Spreads o'er this tuft of heath, which now, 

attired 
In the whole fulness of its bloom, affords 
Couch beautiful as e'er for earthly use 
Was fashioned ; whether by the hand of Art, 
That eastern Sultan, amid flowers en- 
wrought 
On silken tissue, might diffuse his limbs 
In languor; or, by Nature, for repose 
Of panting Wood-nymph, wearied with the 

chase. 
O Lady ! fairer in thy Poet's sight 
Than fairest spiritual creature of the groves, 



Approach ; — and, thus invited, crown with 

rest 
The noon-tide hour; though truly some 

there are 
Whose footsteps superstitiously avoid 
This venerable Tree ; for, when the wind 
Blows keenly, it sends forth a creaking 

sound 
(Al)ove the general roar of woods and crags) 
Distinctly heard from far — a doleful note ! 
As if (so Grecian shepherds would have 

deemed) 
The Hamadryad, pent within, bewailed 
Some bitter wrong. Nor is it unbelieved, 
By ruder fancy, that a troubled ghost 
Haunts the old trunk ; lamenting deedb of 

which 
The flowery ground is conscious. But no 

wind 
Sweeps now along this elevated ridge; 
Not even a zephyr stirs ; — the obnoxious 

Tree 
Is mute ; and, in his silence, would look 

down, 
O lovely Wanderer of the trackless hills. 
On thy reclining form with more delight 
Than his coevals in the sheltered vale 
Seem to participate, the while they view 
Their own far-stretching arms and leafy 

heads 
Vividly pictured in some glassy pool. 
That, for a brief space, checks the hurrying 

stream! 
1819. 



THE TRIAD. 

Show me the noblest Youth of present 

time. 
Whose trembling fancy would to love gi /e 

birth ; 
Some Cod or Hero, from the Oi^mpiim 

clime 
Returned, to seek a Consort upon earth ; 
Or, in no doubtful prospect, lot me see 
The brightest star of ages yet to be. 
And I v/ill mate and match him blissfully. 

I will not fetch a Naiad from a f^ood 

Pure as herself — (song lacks not mi-htict 

power) 
Nor leaf-crowned Dryad from a patliless 

wood, 
Nor Sea-nymph glistening from her cora» 

bower : 



200 



POEMS OF THE T^rAGIlVATTON. 



Mere Mortals, bodied iorth in vision still, 
Shall with Mount Ida's triple lustre fill 
The chasttr coverts ot a British hill. 

" Appear !— obey my lyre's command 
Come, like the Graces, hand in hand ! 
For ye, though not by birth allied, 
Are Sisters in the bond of love ; 
Nor shall the tongue of envious pride 
Presume those interwcavings to rcj)rove 
In you, which that fair progeny of Jove, 
Learned from the tuneful spheres that glide 
In endless union, earth and sea above.'' 
—1 sing in vain ;— the pines have hushed 

their waving : 
A peerless Youth expectant at my side, 
Breathless as they, with unabated cravuig 
Looks to the earth, and to the vacant ,ir; 
And, with a wandering eye that seems to 

chide. 
Asks of the clouds what occupants they 

hide : — 
But why solicit more than sight could bear, 
By casting on a moment all we dare ? 
Invoke we those bright Beings one by one ; 
And what was boldly promised, truly shall 

be done. 

" Fear not a constraining measure 1 
— Yielding to this gentle spell, 
Lucida ! n-om domes of pleasure. 
Or from cottage-sprinkled dell, 
Come to regions solitary, 
Where the eagle builds her aery. 
Above the hermit's long-forsaken cell ! " 
— She comes ! — behol(f 

That Figure, like a ship vvith snow-white sail ! 
Nearer she draws ; a breeze uplifts her veil ; 
Upon her coming wait 
As pure a sunshine and as soft a gale 
As e'er, on herbage covering earthly mould. 
Tempted the bird of Juno to unfold 
His richest splendor — when his veering gait 
And every motion of his starry train 
Seem governed by a strain 
Of music, audible to him alone. 

" O Lady, worthy of earth's proudest 
Throne ! 
Nor less, by excellence ot nature, fit 
Beside an unambitious hearth to sit 
Domestic queen, where grandeur is unknown ; 
What living man could fear 
The worst of Fortune's malice, wert Thou 

near, ' 
Humbling that lily-stem, thy sceptre meek, 
That its fair flowers may from his cheek 
Brush the too happy tear ? 



Queen, and handmaid lowly ! 

Whose skill can speed the day with livelji 
cares. 

And banish melancholy 

By all that mmd invents or nand prepares; 

O Thou, against whose lip, witliout its smile 

And in its silence even, no heart is proof ; 

Whose goodness, sinking deep, would reC' 
oncile 

The scftest Nursling of a gorgeous palace 
To the bare life beneath the liawthorn-roof 
Of Sherwood's Archer, or :n caves of Wal- 
lace — 
Who that hath seen thy beauty could content 
His soul with but a i^lnnfsc of heavenly day ? 
Who that hath loved thee, but -vould lay 
His strong hand on the wind, if it were bent 
'J'o take thee in thy majesty away ? 
— Pass onward (even the glancing deer 
Till we depart intrude not here :) 
That mossy slope, o'er which the woodbine 

throws 
A canopy, is smoothed for thy repose 1 " 

Glad moment is it when the throng 

Of warblers in full concert strong 

Strive, and not vainly strive, to rout 

The lagging shower, and force coy Phoebus 

out. 
Met by the rainbow's fo m divine, 
Issuing from her cloudy shrine; — 
So may the thrillings of the lyre 
Prevail to further our desire, 
While to these shades a sister Nymph I 

call. 

" Come, if the notes thine ear may pierce, 
Come, youngest of the lovely Three, 
Submissive to the might of verse 
And the dear voice of harmony, 
By none more deeply felt than Thee 1" 
— I sang ; and lo ! from pastimes virginal 
She hastens to the tents 
Of nature, and the lonely elements. 
A ir sparkles round her with a dazzling sheen ; 
But mark her glowing cheek, her vesturf 

green ! 
And, as if wishful to disarm 
Or to repay the potent Chaim, 
She bears the stringed lute of old romance, 
That cheered the trellised arbor's privacy, 
And soothed war-wearied knights in raftered 

hall. 
How vivid, yet how delicate, her glee ! 
So tripped the l\Tuse, inventress of the dance i 
So, truant in waste woods, the blithe Ew 

phrosyne ! 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATTO^T. 



201 



But the ringlets of that head 

Why are they ungarlanded ? 

Why bedeck her temples less 

Ihan the simplest shepherdess? 

Is it not a brow inviting 

Choicest flowers that ever breathed, 

Which the myrtle would delight in 

With Idalian rose enwreathed ? 

But her humility is well content 

With one wild floweret (call it not forlorn) 

Flower of the winds, beneath her 

bosom worn — 
Yet more for love than ornament. 

Open, ye thickets ! let her fly, 

Swift as a Thracian Nymph o'er field and 

height ! 
For She, to all but those who love ^-er, shy. 
Would gladly vanish from a Stranger's sight ; 
Though where she is beloved and loves, 
Light as the wheeling butterfly -^he moves ; 
Her happy spirit as a bird is tree. 
That rifles blossoms on a tree, 
Turning them inside out with arch audacity. 
Alas! how little can a moment show 
Of an eye where feelmg plays 
In ten thousand dewy rays ; 
A face o'er whicli a thousand shadows go ! 
—She stops— is fastened to that rivulet's 

-* side ; 
And there (while, with.sedater mien, 
O'er timid waters that have scarcely left 
Tlieir birth-place in the rucky cleft 
She bends) at leisure may be seen 
Features to ol 1 ideal grace allied, 
Amid their smiles and dimples dignified — 
Fit countenance for th ,• soul of primal truth ; 
The bland composure of eternal youth ! 

What more changeful than the sea ? 

But over his great tides 

Fidelity presides ; 

And this lightdiearted Maiden constant is 

as he. 
High is her aim as heaven above, 
And wide as ether her good-will ; 
And. like the lowly reecl, her love 
Can tlririk its nurture from the scantiest rill: 
Insight as keen as frosty star 
Is to her charity no bar. 
Nor interrupts her frolic graces 
When she is, far from these wild places. 
Encircled by familiar faces. 

O the charm that manners draw, 
Nature, from thy g.Miuine law ! 
W. from what h .: hantl would do. 
Her voice v/ould utter, aught onsue 



Untoward or unfit ; 

She, in benign affections pure; 

In self-forgetfulness secure. 

Sheds round the transient harm or vague 

mischance 
A light unknown to tutored elegance : 
Hers is nut a cheek shame-stricken, 
But her blushes are joy-flushes ; 
And the fault (if fault it be) 
Only ministers to quicken 
Laughterdoving gayety, ^ 
And kindle sportive wit — 
Leaving this Daughter of the mountains free 
.As if siie knew that Obeion king of Fairy 
Had crossed her purpose with some quaint 

vagary, 
And heard his viewless bands 
Over their mirtliful triumph clapping hands. 

" Last of the Three, though eldest born, 
Reveal thyself, like pensive Morn 
Touched by the skylark's eailiest note. 
Ere humbler gladness be afloat. 
But wiiether in the semblance dresl 
Of Dawn — or Eve, fair vision of the west. 
Come with each anxious hope subdued 
By woman's gentle fortitude. 
Each grief, through meekness, settling into 

rest. 
— Or I would hail thee when some high- 
wrought page 
Of a closed volume lingering in thy hand 
Has raised thy spuit to a peaceiul stand 
Among the glories of a happier age." 

Her brow haMi opened on me— see it there, 

Brightening the umbiage of her hair ; 

So gleams the crescent moon, that k.ves 

To be descried through shady groves. 

Tenderest bloom is on her cheek ; 

Wisii not for a richer streak ; 

Nor dread the depth of meditative eye; 

Hut let thy love, upon that azure field 

Of thoughtfulness and beauty, yield 

Its homage offered up in purity. 

What would'st thou more ? In sunny glade 

Or under leaves of thickest shade. 

Was such a stillness e'er diffused 

Since earth grew calm while angels mused? 

Softly she treads, as if her foot were loth 

'J'o crush the mountain dew-drops — soon to 

melt 
On the flower's breast ; as if she felt 
That flowers themselves, whate'er their hua 
With all their fragrance, :dl their glistening, 
Call to the heart for inward listening— 
And though for bridal wreaths and tokens 

true 



102 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION'. 



Welcomed wisely ; though a growth 

Which the careless shepherd sleeps on 

As fitly spring from turf the mciurner weeps 

on — 
And without wrong are cropped the marble 

tomb to strew. 
Tlie Charm is over ; the mute Phantoms 

gone, 
Nor will return — but droop not, favored 

Youth ; 
'I'he ai)parition that before thee shone 
Obeyed a summons covetous of truth. 
From these wild rocks tliy footsteps I will 

guide 
To bowers in which thy fortune may be tried, 
And one of the bright Three become tliy 

happy Bride. 
1828. 



XLL 

THE WISHING-GATE. 

In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of the old 
highway leading to Ambleside, is a gate, 
which, time out of mind, has been called the 
Wisliiiig-^ate, froni a belief that wishes 
furiTied or indulged there have a favorable 
issue. 

Hope rules a land forever green : > 

All powers that serve the bright-eyed Queen 

Are confident and gay ; '^ 

Clouds at her bidding disappear 
Points she to aught ? — the bliss draws near, 

And Fi;ncy smooths the way. 

Not sucli the land of Wishes — there 
Dwell fruitless day-dreams, lawless prayer, 

And thougiits with things at strife; 
Vet how forlorn, should yc depart, 
Ve superstitions of the hcarf, 

How poor, were human life ! 

When magic lore abjured its might, 
Ve did not forfeit one dear right, 

One tender claim abate ; 
Witness this symbol of your sway. 
Surviving near the public way, 

The rustic Wishing-gate ! 

Inquire not if the fairy race 

Shed kindly influence on the place. 

Ere northward they retired ; 
If here a warrior left a spell, 
Panting for glory as he fell ; 

Or here a saint expired. 

Enough that all around is fair. 
Composed with Nature's finest care, 



And in her fondest love — 
Peace to embosom and content — 
To overawe the turbulent, 

The selfish to reprove. 

Yea ! even the Stranger from afar, 
Rcchning on this moss-grown bar, 

Unknowing, and unknown, 
The infection of the ground partakes, 
Longing for his Beloved — who makes 

All happiness her own. 

Then why should conscious Spirits fear 
The mystic stirrings that are here, 

The ancient faith disclaim .? 
The local Genius ne'er befriends 
Desires whose course in folly ends, 

Whose just reward is shame. 

Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn, 
If some, by ceaseless pains outworn, 

Here crave an easier lot ; 
If some have thirsted to renew 
A broken vow, or bind a true, 

With firmer, holier knot. 

And not in vain, when thoughts are cast 
Upon the irrevocable past, 

Some Penitent sincere 
May for a worthier future sigh, 
While trickie^^ iroiii his downcast eye 

No unavailing tear. 

Tlie Worldling, pining to be freed 
I'^rom turmoil, who would turn or speed 

The current of his fate. 
Might stop before this favored scene. 
At Nature's call, nor blush to lean 

Upon the Wishing-gate. 

The Sage, who feels how blind, how weak 
Is man, though loth such help to seek, 

Yet, passing, here might pause, 
And thirst for insight to allay 
Misgiving, while the crimson day 

In quietness withdraws; 
Gr when the church-clock's knell profoiinc 
I'o Time's first step across the bound 

Of midnight makes rejily ; 
Time pressing on with starry crest, 
To filial sleep upon the breast 

Of dread eternity. 
1828. 



THE WISHING-GATE DESTROYED. 

'Tis gone — with old belief and dream 
That round it clung, and tempting scheme 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATTON. 



203 



Released from fear and doubt ; 
And the bright landscape too must lie, 
By this blank wall, from every eye, 

Relentlessly shut out. 

Bear witness ye who seldom passed 
That op-'uing — but a look ye cast 

Upjn the lake below, 
What spirit-stirring power it gained 
From faith which here was entertained, 

Though reason might say no. 

Bhst is that ground, where, o'er the springs 
Ol iiistory,. Glory claps her wings, 

Fame sluds the exulting tear ; 
Yet earth is wide, and many a nook 
Unheard of is, like this, a book 

For modest meanings dear. 

It was in rooth a happy thought 
'J" hat grafted, on so fair a spot. 

So confident a token 
Of coming good : — the charm is fled ; 
InJidgent centuries spun a thread. 

Which one harsh day has broken. 

Alas ! for him who gave the word : 
Coiiklhe no symjxithy afford. 

Derived from earth or heaven, 
a' .J hearts so oft by hope betrayed ; 
Their very wishes wanted aid 

Which here was freely given .'' 

Where, tor the lovelorn maiden's wound. 
Will now so readily be found 

A balm of expectation ? 
Anxious for tar-off children, where 
Shall mothers breathe a like sweet air 

Ot home-felt consolation ? 

And not unfelt will prove the loss 
'Mid trivial care and petty cross 

And each day's shallow grief, 
Though the most easily beguiled 
Were oU among the first that smiled 

At their own fond belief. 

If still the reckless change we mourn, 
A reconciling thought may turn 

To harm that might lurk here, 
Ere judgment prompted from witliin 
Fit aims, with courage to begin. 

And strength to persevere. 

Not Fortune's slave is Man : our state 
Enjoins, while firm resolves await 

On wishes just and wise. 
That strenuous action follow both, 
And life be one perpetual growth 

Of heavenward enterprise. 



So taught, so trained, we boldly face 
All accidents of time and place : 

Whatever props may fail, 
Trust in that sovereign law can spread 
Njw glory o'er the mountain's head. 

Fresh beauty through the vale. 

That tuiih informing mind and heart, 
The simplest cottager may part, 

Ungrieved, with charm and spell ; 
And yet, lost Wishing-gate, to thee 
The voice of grateful memory 

Shall bid a kind farewell ! 



XLIII. 

THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK. 

A r^ocK there is whose homely front 

The passing traveller slights ; 
Yet there tlie glow-worms liang their lamps, 

Like stars, at various heights : 
And one coy Primrose to that rock 

The vernal breeze invites. 

What hideous warfare hath been waged, 

What kingdoms overthrown. 
Since first 1 spied that Primrose-tuft 

And marked it for my own ; 
A lasting link in Nature's cliuin 

From highest heaven let dov.n ! 

The flowers, still faithful to the stems, 

Their fellowship renjw ; 
The stems are faithful to the root, 

That worketh out ot view ; 
And to the rock the root adheres 

In every fibre true. 

Close clings to earth the living rock, 

Though threatening still to fall ; 
The earth is constant to her sphere ; 

And God upliolds them all : 
So blooms this lonely plant, nor dreads 

Her annual funeral. 

* » « « « 

Here closed the meditative strain ; 

But air breathed soft that day. 
The hoary mountain-heights were cheered 

The sunny vale looked gay ; 
And to the Primrose of the Rock 

1 gave -this after-lay. 
I sang — Let myriads of bright flowers, 

Like Thee, m field and grove 
Revive unenvied ; — mightier far, 

Than tremblings that reprove 
Our vernal tendencies to hope, 

Is God's redeeming love \ 



204 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



That love which changed — for wan disease, 

For sorrow that had bent 
O'er hopeless dust, for withered age — 

Their moral element, 
And turned the thistles of a curse 

To types beneticent. 

Sin-blighted though we are, we too, 

The reasoning bons of Men, 
From one oblivious winter called 

Shall rise, and breathe again ; 
And in eternal summer lose 

Our threescore years and ten. 

To humbleness of heart descends 

Tliis prescience from on high. 
The faith that elevates the just. 

Before and when they die ; 
And makes each soul a separate heaven, 
A court for Deity. 
1831. 

o • 

XLIV. 

PRESENTIMENTS. 

Presentiments ! they judge not right 
Wlio deeir. that ye from open light 

Retire in fear of shame ; 
All lieavcn-born Instincts shun the touch 
Of vulgar sense, — and, being such. 

Such privilege ye claim. 

The tear whose source I could not guess, 
The deep sigh that seemed fatherless. 

Were mine in early days ; 
And now, unforced by time to part 
With fancy, I obey my heart. 

And venture on your praise. ^ 

What though some busy foes to good, 
T(x) potent over nerve and blood. 

Lurk near you — and combine 
To taint the health which ye infuse ; 
Tills hides not from the moral Muse 

Your origin divine. 

How oft from you, derided Powers ! 
Comes Faith that inauspicious hours 

Builds castles, not of air : 
Bodings unsanctioned by the will 
Flow from your visionary skill. 

And teach us to beware. 

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift. 
That no philosophy can lift. 

Shall vanish, if ye please, 
Like morning mist : and, where it lay 
The spirits at your bidding play 

in gayety and ease. 



Star-guided contemplations move 
Through space, though calm, not raised 
above 

Prognostics that ye rule ; 
The naked Indian of the v.ild, 
And haply, too, the cradled Child, 

Are pupils of your school. 

But who can fathom your intents. 
Number their signs or instruments.? 

A rainbow, a sunb-am, 
A subtle smell that Spring unbinds. 
Dead pause abrupt of midnight winds, 

An echo, or a dream. 

The laughter of the Christmas hearth 
With sighs of self-exhausted mirth 

Ye feelingly reprove ; 
And daily, in the conscious breast. 
Your visitations are a test 

And exercise of love. 

When some great change gives boundless 

scope 
To an exuUin;r Nation's hope, 

Oft, startled and made wise 
By your lovv-breiithed interpretings, 
Tlic simply-meek foretaste the springs 

Of bitter contraries. 

Ye daunt the proud ariav of war, 
Pervade the lonely ocean far 

As sail hatli been unfurled ; 
For dancers in the festive liall 
Wliat ghastly partners hath your call 

Fetclied from the shadowy world ! 

'Tis said that warnings ye dispense, 
ICmboldened by a keener sense ; 

That men have lived for whom. 
With dread precision, ye made clear 
The hour that in a distant year 

Should knell them to the tomb. 

Unwelcome insight ! Yet there are 
Blest times when mystery is laid bare, 

Truth shows a glorious face. 
While on that isthmus whicli commands 
The councils of both woildc, she stands. 

Sage Spirits 1 by your grace. 

God, who instructs the brutes to scent 
Ail changes of tiie element. 

Whose wisdom fixed tiie scale 
Of natures, for our wants provides 
By higher, sometimes humbler, guides, 

When lights of reason fail 
1830. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



^05 



XLV. 

VERNAL ODE. 

Rerum Natura tota est iiusquam magis quam 
in minimis.— Plin. Nat. Hist. 



Beneath the concave of an April sky, 
When all the fields with freshest green were 

(light, 
Appeared, in presence of the spiritual eye 
That aids or supersedes our grosser sight, 
The torm and rsch habiliments of One 
Whose countenance bore resemblance to 

the san, 
When it reveals, in evening majesty, 
Features half lost amid their own pure 

light, 
Poised like a weary cloud, in middle air 
He hung, — then floated with angelic ease 
(Softening that bright effulgence by de- 
grees ) "*• 
Till he had reached a summit sharp and 

bare, 
Where oft the venturous heifer drinks the 

noontide breeze. 
Upon the apex of that lofty cone 
Alighted, there the Stranger stood alone ; 
Fair as a gorgeous Fabric of the east 
Suddenly raised by some enchanter's 

power. 
Where nothing was : and firm as some o!d 

Tower 
Of Britain's realm, whose leafy crest 
Waves high, embellished by a gleaming 

shower. 

II. 

Beneath the shadow of his purple wings 
Rested a golden harp; — he touched the 

strings ; 
And, after prelude of unearthly sound 
Poured through the echoing hills around, 
He sang— 

" No wintry desolations, 
Scorching blight or noxious dew. 
Affect my native habitations ; 
Buried in glory, far beyond the scope 
Of man's inquiring gaze, but to his hope 
Imaged, though faintly, in the hue 
Profound of night's ethereal blue ; 
And in the aspect of each radiant orb; — 
Some fixed, some wandering with no timid 

curb; 
JJut wandering star and fixed, to mortal 



Blended in absolute serenity. 

And free from semblance of decline; — 

Fresh as if Evening brought their natal 

hour. 
Her darkness splendor gave, her silence 

power. 
To testify of Love and Grace divine. 



What if those bright fires 

Shine subject to decay, 

Sons haply of extinguished sires, 

Themselves to lose their light, or pass 

awcly 
Like clouds before the wind, 
Be thanks poured out to Him whose hand 

bestows. 
Nightly, on human kind 
That vision of endurance and repose. 
— And though to every draught of vita! 

breath 
Renewed throughout the bounds of earth 

or ocean. 
The melancholy gates of Death 
Respond with sympathetic motion ; 
Though all that feeds on nether air, 
Howe'er magnificent or fair. 
Grows but to perish, and entrust 
Its ruins to their kindred dust : 
Yet, by the Almighty's ever-during care, 
Her procreant vigils Nature keeps 
Amid the unfathomable deeps ; 
And saves the peopled fields of earth 
From dread of emptiness or dearth. 
Thus, in their stations, hftmg tow'rd the 

sky 
Tlie foliaged head in cloud-like majesty, 
The shadow-cashing race of trees survive ; 
Thus, in the train of Spring arrive 
Sweet flowers :— what living eye hath 

viewed 
Their myriads ? — endlessly renewed, 
Wherever strikes the sun's glad ray ; 
Where'er the subtle waters stray ; 
Wherever sportive breezes bend 
Tlieir course, or genial showers descend! 
Mortals, rejoice ! the very Angels quit 
Theu' mansions unsusceptible of change. 
Amid your pleasant bowers to sit. 
And through your sweet vicissitudes tc 
range ! " 



O, nursed at happy distance from the cares 
Of a too-anxious world, mild pastoral Muse! 
That, to the sparkling crown Urania wears^. 
And to her sister Clio's laurel wreath, 



2o6 



POEMS OF THE IM AGINATION. 



Prefer'st a sarland culled from purple 
heath, 

Or blooming thicket moist with morning 

dews ; 
Was such bright Suectacle vouchsafed to 

me ? 
And was it granted to the simple ear 
Of thy contented Votary 
Such melody to hear ! 
///;// rather suits it, side by side with thee, 
Wrapped in a fit of pleasing indolence, 
While thy tired lute hangs on the hawthorn- 
tree, 
To lie and listen — till o'er-drowsed sense 
Sinks, hardly conscious of the influence — 
To the soft murmur of the vagrant Dee. 
— A slender sound ! yet hoary 'J'ime 
Doth to the Soul exalt it with the chime 
Of all his years : — a company 
Of ages coming, ages gone ; 
{ Nations from before them sweeping, 
Regions in destruction steeping,) 
But every awful note in unison 
With that faint utterance, which tells 
Of treasure sucked from buds and bells, 
For the pure keeping of those waxen cells ; 
Where She — a statist prudent to confer 
Upon the common weal ; a warrior bcl J, 
Radiant all over with unburnished gold, 
And armed with living spear for mortal 
fight; 
A cunning forager 
That spreads no waste ; a social builder ; 

one 
In whom all busy offices unite 
With all hnc functions that afford delight- 
Safe through the winter storm in quiet 
dwells! 

V. 

And is She brought within the power 

Of vision? — o'er this tempting flower 

Hovering until the petals stay 

Her flight, and take its voice away ! — 

Observe each wing ! — a tiny van ! 

'J'he structure of her laden thigh, 

How fragile ! yet of ancestry 

Mysteriously remote and high ; 

Iligh as the imperial front of man ; 

The roseate bloom on woman's cheek ; 

The soaring eagle's curved beak ; 

The white plumes of the floating swan ; 

Old as the tiger's paw, the lion's mane 

Ere shaken by that mood of stern disdain 

At which the desert trembles.— Humming 

Bee! 
Thy sting was needless then, perchance 

unknown, 



The seeds of malice were not sown ; 

All creatures met in peace, from fierceness 

free. 
And no pride blended with their dignity, 
— Tears had not broken from their source; 
Nor Anguish strayed from her Tartarean 

den ; 
The golden years maintained a course 
Not undiversified though smooth and even ; 
We were not mocked with glimpse and 

shadow then, 
IhMght Seraphs mixed familiarly with men ; 
And earth and stars composed a universal 

heaven ! 
1S17. 



XLVI. 

DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS. 

•' Not to tlie earth confiiud. 
Ascend to heaven." 

Where will they stop, those breathing 

Powers, 
The Spirits of the new-born flowers \ 
They wander with the breeze, they wind 
Where'er the streams a passage find ; 
Up from their native ground they rise 
In mute aerial harmonies ; 
From humble violet — modest thyme- 
Exhaled, the essential odors chmb, 
As if no space below the sky 
Their subtle flight could satisfy : 
Heaven will not tax our thoughts with 

pride 
If like ambition be tii,eir guide. 

Roused by this kindliest of May-showers, 
The spirit-quickener of the flowers, 
That with moist virtue softly cleaves 
The buds, and freshens the young leaves, 
The birds pour forth their souls in notes 
Of rapture from a thousand throats — 
Here checked by too impetuous haste, 
Whils there the music runs to waste. 
With bounty more and more enlarged, 
Till the whole air is overcharged ; 
Give ear, O Man! to their appeal 
And thirst for no inferior zeal, 
Thou, who canst think, as well as feel. 

Mount from the earth ; aspire ! aspire I 
So pleads the town's cathedral quire, 
In strains that from their solemn height 
Sink, to attain a loftier flight ; 
While incense from the altar breathes 
Rich fragi'ance in embodied wreaths j 



POEMS OF THE IMACINATrON. 



207 



Or, flung from swinging censer, slirouds 
The taper-lights, and curls in clouds 
Around angelic l""orms, the still 
Creation of the painter's skill, 
That on the service wait concealed 
One moment, and the next revealed 
— Cast off your bonds, awake, arise, 
And for no transient ecstasies ! 
What else can mean the visual plea 
Of still or moving invigery — 
The iterated summons loud. 
Not wasted on the attendant crowd, 
Nor wholly lost upon the throng 
Hurrying the busy streets along ? 

Alas! the sanctities combined 
By art to unsensualize the mind 
Decay and languish ; or, as creeds 
And humors change, are spurned like 

weeds : 
The priests are from theirlHtars thrust ; 
Temples are levelled with the dust ; 
And solemn rites and awful forms 
Founder amid fanatic storms, 
\ et evermore, through years renewed 
In undisturbed vicissitude 
Of seasons balancing their flight 
On the swift wings of day and night, 
Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door 
Wide open for the scattered Poor. 
Where flower-breathed incense to the skies 
Is wafted in mute harmonies ; 
And ground fresh-cloven by the plough 
Is fragrant with a humbler vow ; 
Where birds and brooks from leafy dells 
Chime forth unwearied canticles. 
And vapors magnify and spread 
The glory of the sun's bright head — 
Still constant in her worship, still 
Conforming to tlie eternal Will, 
Whether men sow or reap the fields, 
Divine monition Nature yields. 
That not by bread alone we live, 
Or what a hand of flesh can give ; 
That every day should leave some part 
Free for a sabbath of the heart : 
So shall the seventh be truly blest. 
From morn to eve, with hallowed rest. 

1812. 



k 



XLVH, 

THE CUCKOO-CLOCK. 

WouLDST thou be taught, when sleep has 

taken flight, 
By a sure voice that can most sweetly tell, 
How far-off yet a glimpse of morning light, 
And if to lure the truant back be well, 



Forbear to covet a Repeater's stroke, 
That, answering to thy touch, will sound 

the hour ; 
r>etter provide thee with a Cuckoo-clock 
For service hung behind thy chamber-door; 
And in due time the soft spontaneous 

shock, 
The double note, as if with living power. 
Will to composure lead — or make thee blithe 

as bird in bower. 

List, Cuckoo — Cuckoo ! — oft tho' tempests 

howl. 
Or nipping frost remind thee trees are bare. 
How cattle pine, and droop the shivering 

fowl. 
Thy spirits will seem to feed on balmy air ; 
I speak with knowledge, — by that Voice 

beguiled, 
Thou wilt salute old memories as they 

throng 
Into thy heart; and fancies, running wild 
Through fresh green fields, and budding 

groves among. 
Will make thee happy, happy as a child : 
Of sunshine wilt thou think, and flowers, 

and song, 
And breathe as in a woild where nothing 

can go wrong. 

And know — that, even for him who shuns 

the day 
And nightly tosses on a bed of pain ; 
Whose joys, from all but memory swept 

away, 
Must come unhopedfor, if they come again ; 
Know — that, for him whose waking 

thoughts, severe 
As his distress is sharp, would scorn my 

theme, 
The mimic notes, striking upon his ear 
In sleep, and intermingling with his dream, 
Could fi(im sad regions send him to a dear 
Delightful land of verdure, shower and 

gleam, 
I'o mock the wandering Voice beside some 

haunted stream. 

O bounty without measure! wliile the t'racc 
Of Heaven dc^th in such wise, frotii hunibk-sl 

springs. 
Pour pleasure forth, and solaces that trace 
A mazy course along familiar things, 
Well may our hearts have faith that bless- 
ings come, 
Streaming from founts above the starrv sk}', 
With angels when their own untroubled 
hcnie 



2o8 



rOF.MS OF THE IMAGINATrOj^. 



They leave, and speed on nightly embassy 
To visit earthly chambers, — and for whom ? 
Yea, both for souls who God's forbearance 

try, 
And those tliat seek his help, and for his 

mercy sigli. 



XLVIII. 

TO THE CLOUDS. 

Army of Clouds ! ye winged Host in troops 
Ascending from behind tlie motionless bruw 
Of that tall rock, as from a hidden world, 
O whither with such eagerness of speed ? 
\Vl\at seek ye, or what shun ye? of tlic 

gale 
Companions, fear ye to be left behind, 
Or racing o'er your blue ethereal field 
Contend ye with each otiier ? of the sea 
Children, thus post ye over vale and lieight 
To sink upon your mother's lap — and rest ? 
Or were ye rightlier hailed, when first mine 

eyes 
Beheld in your impetuous march the like- 
ness 
Of a wide army pi-essing on to meet 
Or overtake some unknown enemy ? — 
But your smooth motions suit a peaceful 

aim ; 
And Fancy, not less aptly pleased, com- 
pares 
Your squadrons to an endless flight of 

birds 
Aerial, upon due migration bound 
To milder climes ; or rather do ye urge 
In caravan your hasty pilgrimage 
To pause at last on more aspiring heights 
Than these, and utter your devotion there 
With thunderous voice? Or are ye jubi- 
lant. 
And would ye, tracking your proud lord the 

Sun, 
Be present at his setting ; or the pomp 
Of Persian mornings would ye fill, and 

stand 
Poismg your splendors high above the 

heads 
Of worshippers kneeling to their up risen 

God? 
Whence, whence, ye Clouds ! this eagerness 

of speed ? 
Speak, silent creatures. — Thev arc gone, are 

fled. 
Buried together in yon gloomy mass 



That I( ads the middle heaven ; and deal 
• and bright 
And vacant doth the region which they 

thronged 
Appear ; a calm descent of sky conducting 
Down to the unapproachable abyss, 
Down to that hidden gulf from which they 

rose 
To vanish — fleet as days and months and 

years, 
Fleet as tlie generations of mankind, 
P'ower, glory, empire, as the world itself, 
The lingering world, when time hath ceased \ 

to be. I 

But tlie winds roar, shaking the rooted ! 

trees. 
And see I a bright precursor to a train 
Perchance as numerous, overpeers the rock 
That sullenly refuses to partake 
Of the wild impulse. From a fount of life 
Invisible, the long procession moves 
Luminous or gloomy, welcome to the vale 
Which tliey are entering, welcome to mine 

eye 
That sees them, to my soul that owns in 

them. 
And in the bosom of the firmament 
O'er which they move, wherein they are 

contained, 
A type of her capacious self and all 
Her restless progeny. 

A humble walk 
Here is my body doomed to tread, this path, 
A little hoary line and faintly traced. 
Work, shall we call it, of the Shepherd's 

foot 
Or of his flock ? — joint vestige of them both. 
I pace it unrepining, for my thoughts 
Admit no bondage and my words have 

wings. 
Where is the Orphean lyre, or Druid harp. 
To accompany the verse ? The mountain 

blast 
Shall be our hand of music ; he shall sweep 
The rocks, and quivering trees, and billowy 

lake. 
And search the fibres of the caves, and they 
Shall answer, for our song is of the Clouds, 
And the v/ind loves them, and the gentle 

gales — 
Which by their aid re-clothe the naked lawn 
With annual verdure, and revive the woods, 
And moisten the parched lip" of thirsty 

flowers — 
Love them ; and every idle breeze of air ' 
Bends to the favorite burthen. Moon an4 

stars 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



2og 



Keep tlieir most solemn vigils when the 
Clouds • 

Watch also, shifting peaceably their place 
Like bands of ministering Spirits, or when 

they lie, 
'^s if some Protean art the change had 

wrought, 
In listless quiet o'er the ethereal deep 
Scattered, a Cyclades of various shapes 
And all degrees of b.^auty. O ye Light- 
nings ! 
Ye are their perilous offspring ; and the 

Sun — 
Source inexhaustible of life and joy, 
And type of man's far-darting reason, there- 
fore 
In old time worshipped as the god of verse, 
A blazing intellectual deity — -» 
Loves his own glory in their looks, and 

showers 
Upon that unsubstantial brotherhood 
Visions with all but beatific light 
Enriched — too transient were they not re- 
newed 
From age to age, and did not, while we 

gaze 
In silent rapture, credulous desire 
Nourish the hope that memory lacks not 

power 
To keep the treasure unimpaired. Vain 

thought ! 
Yet why repine, created as we are 
For joy and rest, albeit to find them only 
Lodged in the bosom of eternal things ? 



SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF 
THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 

TuF. gentlest poet, with free thoughts en- 
dowed. 
And a true master of the glowing strain. 
Might scan the narrow province with dis- 
dain 
That to the Painter's skill is here allowed. 
This, this the Bird of Paradise ! disclaim 
The daring thought, forget the name : 
This the Sun's Bird, whom Glendoveers 

might own 
As no unworthy partner in their flight 
Through seas of ether, where the ruffling 

sway 
Of nether air's rude billows is unknown : 



Whom Sylphs, if e'er for casual pastime 

they 
Through India's sp cy regions wing theit 

way. 
Might bow to as their Lord. What char 

acter, 
O sovereign Nature ! I appeal to the& 
Of all thy feathered progeny 
Is so unearthly, and what shape so fair ? 
So richly decked in variegated down, 
Green, sable, shining yellow, shadowy 

brown. 
Tints softly with each other blended, 
Hues doubtfully begun and ended ; 
Or intershooting, and to sight 
Lost and recovered, as the rays cf light 
Glance on the conscious plumes touched 

here and there ? 
Full surely, when with such proud gifts •f 

life 
Began the pencil's strife, 
O'erweening Art was caught as in a snare. 

A sense of seemingly presumptuous 

wrong 
Gave the first impulse to the Poet's song; 
But, of his scorn repenting soon, he drew 
A juster judgment from a calmer view ; 
And, with a spirit freed from discontcn'., 
'Hiankfully took an effort that was meant 
Not with God's bounty. Nature's love, to 

vie, 
Or made with hope to please that inward 

eye 
Which ever strives in vain itself to satisfy, 
But to recall the truth by some faint trace 
Of power ethereal and celestial grace, 
That in the Jiving Creature find on earth a 

place. 



A JEWISH F.AMILY. 

(in a small valley OPPOSITF. ST. GOAR, 
UPON THR RIIINK.) 

Genius of Rnjihael ! if thy wings 

Miglit bear thee to this glen, 
With faithful memory left of things 

To pencil dear and pen. 
Thou would'st forego the neighboring 
Rhine, 

And all his majesty — 
A studious forehead to incline 

O'er this poor family. 



2TO 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATIOIY. 



The Mother — her tliou must have seen, 

In spirit, ere she cunie 
To dwell tliese ri/ted rocks between, 

Or found on earth a name ; 
An inia'^e, too, of that sweet Boy, 

'J"hy inspirations ;^ive — 
Of playfulness, and love, and joy, 

Predestined here to live. 

Downcast, or shooting glances far, 

How beautiful his eyes, 
That blend the nature of the star 

With tliat of summer skies ! 
I speak as if of sense beguiled ; 

Uncounted rncnths are gone, 
Yet am I witli the Jewish Child, 

That exquisite Saint John. 

I see the dark-brown curls, tlie biow 

'I'he smootli transparent skin, 
Kefined, as with intent to show 

The holiness witliin ; 
The grace of parting Infancy 

liy blushes yet untamed ; 
Age faithful to tlie mother's knee. 

Nor of her arms ashamed. 

Two lovely Sisters still and sweet 

As flowers, Stand side by side; 
Thvj^ir soul-subduing looks might cheat 

The Christian oi his pride : 
Such beauty hath the Eternal poured 

Upon them not forlorn. 
Though of a lineage once abhorred, 

Nor yet redeemed from scorn. 

Mysterious safeguard, that, in sjiite 

Of poverty and wrong, 
Doth here preserve a living light, 

i'"rom Hebrew fountains sprung ; 
That gives this ragged group to cast 

Arount. the dell a gleam 
Of Palestine, of glory past. 

And proucl Jerusalem ! 
1828. 



ON THE P0\V1:R OF SOUND, 

AR(;uMr.\T. 

riie Ear ad(lrps<^e<l, n-. occiii'ied by a spiritual 
functionary, in coiniiiunioii with sounds, indi- 
vidual, or combined with studied liarniony.— 
Sources and effects of those sounds (to the 
close of 6tli Stanza).— The power of music, 
whence proceedinir, exemplified in the idiot. 
-M>ngui of music, and its effect in early 



ages — how produced (to the middle of loth 
.Stanza). — The mind recalled to sounds 
acting casually and severally. — Wish uttered 
(nth Stanza) that these could be united into 
a sclieme or system for moral interests and 
intellectual contemplation.— (Stanza 12th. i 
The Pythagorean theory of numbers and 
nuir,ic, with their supposed power over ihj 
motions of the universe — imaginations conso- 
nant with such a theory. — Wish expressed 
('n I ith Stanza) realized, in some degree, by 
die representation cf a 1 sounds under the 
form of thanksgiving to the Creator. — (Last 
Stanza) the destruction ( f earth and the plaiv 
etavy system — the survival of audible har- 
mony, and its sujiport in the Divine Naturci 
as revealed in Holy Writ. 

I. 

Ti'Y functions are ethereal, 
As if within thee dwelt a glancing mind, 
^' 'rgan of vision ! And a spirit aerial 
Informs the cell of Hearing, dark an J 

blind ; 
Intricate labyrinth, more dread for thought 
i'o enter than oracidar cave ; 
Strict passage, through which sighs are 

brought. 
And whispers for the heart, th.ir slave ; 
And shrieks, that revel in abise 
Of shivering ffesh : and warbled air, 
Whose piercing sweetness can unloose 
The chains of fren/.y, or eiUice a smile 
Into tlie ambush of despair ; 
Hosannas pealing clown the long-drawn 

aisle, 
And requiems answered by the pulse that 

b ^ats 
Devoutly, in life's last retreats ! 



The headlong streams and fountains 

;-.erve Thee, invisible Spijit, with untired 
jjowers : 

Cheering the wakeful tent on Syrian moun- 
tains. 

They lull perchance ten thousand thousand 
flowers. 

That roar, the prowling lion's Here I am, 

How fearful to the desert wide ! 

That bleat, how tender ! of the dam 

Calling a straggler to her side. 

Sliout, cuckoo! — let the vernal soul 

Co with thee to the frozen zone; 

Toll from thy loftiest perch, lone bell-bird, 
toll! 

At the still hour to Mercy dear, 

Mercy from her twilight throne 

Listening to nun's faint throb of holy fear, 



POEMS OF THE JMAGINATION. 



21 I 



To sailur's prayer breathed from a darkeninjr 

sea, 
Or widow's cottage-lullaby. 

III. 
Ye Voices, and ye Shadows 
And Images of voice — to hound and horn 
From rocky steep and rock-bestudded 

meadows 
Flung back, and, in the sky's blue caves, 

reborn — 
On with your pastime ! till the church-tower 

bells 
A greeting give of measured glee ; 
And milder echoes from their cells 
Repeat the bridal symphony. 
Then, or far earlier, Itt us love "^ 

Where mists are breaking uj) or gone, 
And from aloft look down into a cove 
Besprinkled witli a careless quire, 
Happy milk-maids, one by one 
Scattering a ditty each to lier desire, 
A liquid concert matchless by nice" Art, 
A stream as if from one full heart. 

IV. 

Blest be the song that brightens 

Tlie blind man's gloom, exalts the veteran's 

mirth ; 
Unscorned the peasant's whistling breath. 

that lightens 
His duteous toil of furrowing the green 

earth. 
Fot the tired slave, Song lifts the languid 

oar, 
And bids it aptly fall, with chime 
'i'liat beautifies tiie fairest shore. 
And mitigates vhe harshest clime. 
Yon pilgrims see — in lagging file 
Tliey move ; but soon the appointed way 
A coral Ave Marie shall beguile, 
And to their hope the distant shrine 
(i listen with a livelier ray : 
Nor friendless he, the prisoner of the mine, 
VViio from the well-spring of his own clear 

breast 
Can draw, and sing his griefs to rest. 

V. 

When civic renovation 

Dawns on a kingdom, and for needful haste 
Best eloquence avails not. Inspiration 
Mounts with a tune, that travels like a blast 
Piping through cave and battlemented 

tower ; 
Then starts the sluggard, pleased to meet 
That voice of Freedom, in its power 
Of prumistb, shrill, wild, and sweet 1 



Who, from a martial paccani, spreads 
Incitements of a battle-day. 
Thrilling the unweaponed crowd with plume- 
less heads ? — 
Even she whose Lydian airs inspire 
Peaceful striving, gentle play 
Of timid hope and innocent desire 
Shot from the dancing Graces, as they mova 
Fanned by the plausive wings of Love. 

VI. 

How oft along thy mazes, 

Regent of sound, have dangerous passions 

^ trod ! 
O Thou, through whom the temple rings 

with praises, 
And blackening clouds in thunder speak of 

God, 
Betray not by the cozenage of sense 
Thy votar'»2s, wooingly resigned 
To a voluptuous influence 
That taints the purer, better, mind ; 
But lead sick Fancy to a harp, 
That hath in noble tasks been tried ; 
And, if the virtuous feel a pang too sharp, 
Soothe it into patience, — stay 
The uplifted arm of Suicide ; 
And let some mood of thine in firm array 
Knit every thought the impending issue 

needs, 
Ere martyr burns, or patriot bleeds ! 

VII. 

As Conscience, to the centre 

Of being, smites with irresistible pain, 

So shall a solemn cadence, if it enter 

The mouldy vaults of the dull idiot's braui, 

Transmute him to a wretch from quiet 

hurled— 
Convulsed as by a jarring din ; 
And then agliast, as at the world 
Of reason partially let in 
By concords vvindmg with a sway 
Terrible for sense and soul ! 
Or, awed he weeps, struggling to quell dia- 

may. 
Point not these mysteries to an Art 
Lodged above«the starry pole ; 
Pure modulations flowing from the heart 
Of divine Love, where Wisdom, Beautv. 

Truth, 
With Order dwell, in endless youth ? 

VIII. 

Oblivion may not cover 
All treasures hoarded by the miser, Time, 
Orphean Insi^^ht! truth's undaunted lovrr, 
To the first leagues of tutored passion cliinU 



2t2 



POEMS OF THE /AfACrAATTOI^. 



When Music deigned within this grosser 

sphere 
Her subtle essence to enfold, 
And voice and shell drew forth a tear 
Softer tlian Nature's self could mould. 
Vet strcniioiis was the infant Age: 
Art, daring because souls could feel, 
Stirred nowhere but an urgent equipage 
Of rapt imagination sped her march 
Through the realms of woe and weal : 
Hell to the lyre bowed low; the upper arch 
Rejoiced that clamorous spell and magic 

verse 
Her wan disasters could disperse. 



The Gift to king Amphion 

That walled a city with its melody 

Was for belief no dream : — thy skill, Arion ! 

Could humanize the creatures of the sea, 

Where men were nionst'^rs. A last grace he 

craves, 
Leave for one chant ; — the dulcet sound 
Steals from the deck o'er willing waves, 
And listening dolphins gather round. 
Self-cast, as with a desperate course, 
'Mid that strange audience, he bestrides 
A proud One docile as a managed horse ; 
And singing, while the accordant hand 
Sweeps his harp, the mastc r rides ; 
So shall he touch at length a friendly strand. 
And he, with his preserver, shining star- 
bright 
In memory, through silent night. 



The pipe of Pan. to shepherds 

Couched in the shadow of Ma?nalian pines. 

Was passing sweet ; the eyeballs of the 

leopards 
That in high triumph drew the Lord of vines. 
How did they sparkle to the cymbal's clang ! 
While Fauns and Satyrs beat the ground 
In cadence, — and Silenus swang 
This way and that, with wild flowers crowned. 
To life, to life give back thine ear : 
Ye who are longing to be rid 
Of fable, though to truth subservient, hear 
The little sprinkling of cold earth that fell 
Echoed from the cofihn-lid ; 
The convict's summons in the steeple's knell: 
" The vain distress-gun,'' from a leeward 

shore. 
Repeated— heard, and heard no more I 



i'or terror, joy, or pity. 
Vast is the compass and the sv;ell of notes 
From the babe's first cry to voice of regal city 
Rolling a solemn sea-like bass, that floats 
Far as the woodlands — with the trill to 

blend 
Of that shy songstress, whose love-tale 
Might tempt an angel to descend, 
While hovering o'er the moonlight vale. 
Ye wandering Utterances, has earth ntf 

scheme, 
No scale of moral music— to unite 
Powers that survive but in the faintest 

dream 
Of memory? — O that ye might btoop to bear 
Chains, such precious chains of sight 
As labored minstrelsies through ages weai \ 
O for a balance fit the truth to tell 
Of the Unsubstantial, pondered well ! 

XII. 

By one pervading spirit 

Of tones and numbers all things are con- 
trolled, 

As sages tautdit, where faith was found to 
merit 

Initiation in that mystery old. 

The heavens, whose aspect makes our 
minds as still 

As they th -mselves appear to be, 

Innumerable voices fill 

With everlasting harmony ; 

The towering headlands, crowned with mist, 

Their feet among the billows, know ■ 

That Ocean is a mighty harmonist ; 

Thy pinions, universal Air, 

Ever waving to and fro. 

Are delegates of harmony, and bear 

Strains that support the Seasons in their 
round ; 

Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound. 

XIJI, 

Break forth into thanksgiving. 

Ye banded instruments of wind and chords,, 

Unite, to magnify the Ever-living, 

Your inarticulate notes with the voice of 

words! 
Nor hushed be service from the lowing meacL 
Nor mute the forest hum of noon ; 
Thou too be heard, lone eagle ! freed 
From snowy peak and cloud, attune 
Thy hungry barkings to the hymn 
Of joy, that from her utmost walls 
The six-days* Work, by flaming SeraphiiB 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



213 



Transmits to Heaven ! As Deep to Deep 

Shouting tlirough one valley calls, 

Ail worlds, all natures, mood and measure 

keep 
For praise and ceaseless gratiilation, poured 
Into the ear of God, their Lord 1 



A Voice to Light gave Being ; 

To Time, and Man his earth-born chron- 
icler ; 

A Voice shall finish doubt and dim foresee- 
ing, - V 

\n(l sweep away life's visionary stir; 



The trumpet (we, intoxicate with pride, 

Arm at its blast fur deadly wars) 

To archangelic lips applied, 

The grave shall open, quench the stars. 

O Silence ! are Man's noisy years 

No more tlian moments of thy life ? 

Is Harmony, blest queen of smiles and tears 

With her smootli tones and discords just, 

Tempted into rapturous strife, 

Tiiy destined bond-slave ? No ! though earth 

be dust 
And vanish, though the heavens dissolvei 

her stay 
Is in the Word that shall not cass aw<iy. 



ROAD SONG. 



Constance D. Mackey. In the Craftsman. 
These to be thankful for a friend, 
A work to do, a way to wend. 
And these in which to take delight: 
The wind that turns the poplars white 
Wonder and gleam of common things- 
Sunlight upon a sea gull's Avings, 
Odors of earth and dew-drenched lawns 
The pageantry of darks and dawns; 
Blue vistas of a city street 
At twilight, music, passing feet; 
The thrill of spring, half joy, half pain, 
The deep voice of the autumn rain- 
Shall we not be content with these 
Imperishable mysteries. 
And. Jocund-hearted, take our share 
Of joy and pain, and find life fair? 
Wayfarers on a road where we 
Set forth each day right valiantly; 
Expectant, dauntless, blithe, content 
To make the great experiment. 



PETER BELL. 

A TALE. 

What's in a Name ? 
Brutus will start a Spirit as soon as Cssar! 



TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ., P.L., ETC. ETC. 
Mv Dear Friend, 

The Tale of Peter Bell, which I now iiitioduce to youi iiotn-v 
and to that of the Public, has, in its Maiuiscniit state, nearly survived its minority .—io\ it 
first saw tlie light in the suainier of 1798. During tins long interval, pains have been taken at 
dilferent times to make the production less unworthy of a favorable reception ; or, rather, to 
fit It for MVm^ per»ianc>itiy a station, however lunnbic, in the Literature of our Country. This 
lias, indeed, been the aim of all my endeavors in Poetry, which, you know, have been suf- 
ficiently laborious to prove that I deem tlie Art not lightly to be approached ; and that the 
attainment of excellence 111 it may laudably be made the principal object of intellectual pursuit 
by aiy man wln', with reasonable consideration of circumstances, has faith in his own impulses. 
The Poem of Peter l^eil, as the Prologue will show, was composed under a belief that the 
Imagination not only does not require for its exeicise the intervention of supernatural agency, 
but that, though such agency be excluded, the faculty mny be called forth as imperiously and 
for kindred resu.ts of pleasure, by incidents, within the compass of poetic jMobabihty, in the 
humblest departments of daily life. Since that Prologue was virhxen, you have exhibited most 
splendid effects of judicious daring, in the opposite and usual course. Let this acknowledg- 
ment make my peace with the lovers of the supernatural ; and 1 nm persuaded it will be ad- 
mitted that to you, as a Master in that province of the art, the following Tale, whether from 
contrast or congruity, is not an inappropriate offering. Accept it, then, as a public testimony 
of affectionate admiration from one with whose name yours has been often coupled (10 use your 
own words) for evil and for good ; and believe me to be, with earnest wishes that life and health 
may be granted you to complete the many important works in winch you are engaged, and with 
high respect. Most faithfully yours, William WoKDiWOKTH. 

Rydal Mount, April -j, 1819. 



PROLOGUE. 

There's something in a fiyinc; horse, 
There's something in a huge balloon ; 
But through the clouds I'll never float 
Until I have a little Boat, 
Shaped like the crescent-moon. 

And now 1 have a little Boat, 

In shape a very crescent-moon : 

Fast througli the clouds my boat can sail ; 

r>ut if perchance your faith should fail, 

Look up — and you shall see me soon ! 

The woods, my Friends, are round you roar- 
ing* 
Rockmg and roaring like a sea ; 
The noise of danger's in your ears, 
And ye have all a thousand fears 
Both for my little Boat and me ! 
(214) 



Meanwhile untroubled I admire 
The pointed horns of my canoe; 
And, did not pity touch my breast 
To see how ye are all distrest, 
Till my ribs ached, I'd lai.gh at you I 



Away we go, my Boat and I — 
Frail man ne'er sate m such another ; 
Whether among the winds we strive, 
Or deep into the clouds we dive, 
Each is contented with the other. 



Away we go — and what care we 
For treasons, tumults, and for wars f 
We are as calm in our delight 
As IS the crescent-moon so bright 
Among the scattered stars. 



PETER BELL. 



2IS 



Up goes my Boat among the stars 
Through many a breathless field of light, 

I Through many a long blue field of ether, 
Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her ; 

I Up goes my little Boat so bright ! 

The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull— 
We pry among them all ; have shot 
Higii o'er the red-haired race of Mars, 
Covered from top to toe with scars ; 
Such company 1 like it not I 

The towns in Saturn are decayed. 

And melancholy Spectres throng them ;— , 

The Pleiads, that appear to kiss 

Each other in the vast abyss. 

With joy 1 sail among them. 

Swift Mercury resounds witli mirth. 
Great Jove is full of stately bowers ; 
But these, and all that they contain, 
What are they to that tiny grain, 
That little Earth of ours ? 

Then back to Earth, the dear green 

Earth :— 
Whole ages if I here should roam, 
The world for my remarks and me 
Would not a whit the better be ; 
I've left my heart at home. 

See ! there she is, the matchless Earth ! 
There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean ! 
Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear 
Through the gray clouds : the Alps are 

here. 
Like waters in commotion! 

Von tawny slip is Libya's sands : 

That silver thread the river Dnieper ; 

And look, where clothed in brightest green 

Is a sweet Isle, of isles the Queen : 

Ye fairies, from all evil keep her I 

And see the town where I was born ! 
Arcund those happy fields we span 
In boyish gambols: — I was lost 
Where I have been, but on this coast 
I feel I am a man. 

Never did fifty things at once 
Appear so lovely, never, never ; — 
How tunefully the forests ring! 
To hear the eartli's soft murmuring 
Thus could I hang forever ! 

" Shame on you ! " cried my little Boat, 

" Was ever such a homesick Loon, 

Witlun a living Boat to sit, 

And make no better use of it ; 

A Boat tv/in-sister of the crescent-moon ! 



Ne'er in the breast of full-grown Poet 
Fluttered so faint a heart before; — 
Was it the music of the spheres 
That overpowered your mortal ears ? 
— Such din sha'l trouble them no more. 

These nether precincts do not lack 
Charms of their own ; — then come with mi« 
I want a conrade, and for you 
Tliere's nothing that I would not do, 
Nauglit is there that you shall not sec. 

Haste ! and above Siberian snows 
■We'll sport amid the boreal morning ; 
Will mingle with her lustres gliding 
Among the stars, the stars now hiding, 
And now the stars adorning. 

I know the secrets of a land 
Where human foot did never stray; 
Fair is that land as evening skies. 
And cool, though in the depth it lies 
Of burning Africa, 

Or we'll into the realm of Faery, 
Among the lovely shades of things ; 
The shadowy forms of mountains bare, 
And streams, and bowers, and ladies fair, 
The shades of palaces and kings ! 

Or, if you thirst with hardy zeal 
Less quiet regions to explore. 
Prompt voyage shall to you reveal 
How earth and heaven are taught to feel 
The might of magic lore ! " 

" My little vagrant Form of light. 

My gay and beautiful Canoe, 

Well have you played your friendly part • 

As kindly take what from my heart 

Experience forces— then adieu! 

Temptation lurks amor.g your words : 
But, while these pleasures you're pursuit.^ 
Without impediment or let, 
No wonder if you quite forget 
What on the earth is doing. 

There was a time when all mankind 
Did listen with a faith Sincere 
To tuneful tongues in mystery versed i 
T!un Poets fearlessly rehearsed 
The wonders of a wild career. 

Go — (but the world's a sleepy world, 
And 'tis, 1 fear, an age too late) 
lake with you some ambitious Youth 1 
I'or, restless Wanderer! I, in truth, 
Am all unfit to be your mate. 



2i6 



PETER BELL. 



Lnncj have T loved what I behold, 
Tlie night that cahns, tlie day that cheers 
The common growth of mother-earth 
Suffices me — her tears, her mirth, 
Her humblest mirth and tears. 

The dragon's wing, the magic ring, 
1 sliall not covet for my dower, 
If I along that lowly way 
With sympathetic heart may stray, 
And with a soul of power. 

These given, what more need I desire 
To stir, to sootlie, or elevate ? 
What nobler marvels than the mind 
May in life's daily prospect find, 
May find or there create .'' 

A potent wand doth Sorrow wield ; 
What spell so strong as guilty Fear! 
Repentance is a tender Sprite ; 
If aught on earth have heavenly might, 
'Tis lodged within her silent tear. 

But grant my wishes, — let us now 
Descend from this ethereal height ; 
Then take tliy way, adventurous Skiff, 
More daring far than Hippogriff, 
And be thy own delight ! 

To the stone-table in my garden, 
Loved haunt of many a summer hour, 
The Squire is come : his daughter Bess 
Beside him in tlie cool recess 
Sits blooming like a flower. 

With these are many more convened ; 
They know not 1 have been so far ;— 
1 see them there, in number nine, 
Beneath the spreading Weymouth pine ! 
1 see them — there they are ! 

There sits the Vicar and his Dame ; 
And there my good friend, Stephen Otter : 
And, ere the light of evening fail, 
To them 1 must relate the Tale 
Of Peter Bell the Potter." 

Off flew the Boat — away she flees. 
Spurning her freight with indignation ! 
And 1, as well as I was ;ible, 
On two poor legs, toward my stone-table 
Limped on with sore vexation. 

" O, here he is ! " cried little Bess — 
She saw me at the garden door ; 
•'We've waited anxiously and long," 
They cried, and all around me throng, 
Full nine of them or more I 



" Reproach me not — your fears be still — 
Be thankful we again have met ; — 
Resume, my Friends ! within the shade 
Your seats, and quickly shall be paid 
The well-remembered debt." 

I spake with faltering voice, like one 
Not wliolly rescued from the pale 
Of a wild dream, or worse illusion ; 
But, straight, to cover my confusion. 
Began the promised Tale. 

PART FIRST. 

All by the moonlight river side 
Groaned the poor Beast — alas ! in vain ; 
The staff was raised to loftier height, 
And the blows fell with heavier weight 
As Peter struck — and struck again. 

"Hold!" cried the Squire, " against the 

rules 
Of common sense you're surely sinning; 
This leap is for us all too bold ; 
Who Peter was, let that be told, 
And start from the beginning." 

" A Potter,* Sir, he was by trade,'' 

Said I, becoming quite collected ; 
'* And wheresoever he appeared, 
Full twenty times was Peter feared 
For once that Peter was respected. 

He, two and-thirty years or more, 
Had been a wild and woodland rover ; 
Had heard the Atlantic surges roar 
On farthest CornwrJl's rocky shore, 
And trod the cliffs of Dover. 

And he had seen Caernarvon's towers. 
And well he knew the spire of Sarum ; 
And he had been where Lincoln bell 
Flings o'er the fen that ponderous knell— 
A far-renowned alarum ! 

At Doncaster, at York, and Leeds, 
And meiry Carlisle liad he been ; 
And ail along the lowlands fair. 
All through the bonny shire of Ayr; 
And far as Aberdeen. 

And he had been at Inverness ; 

And Peter, by the mountain-rills. 

Had danced his round with Highland 

lasses ; 
And he had lain beside his asses 
On lofty Cheviot Hills : 

* In the dialect of the North, a hawker of 
earthenware is tlius designated. 



PETER BELL. 



217 



And he had trudged through Yorkshire 

dales, 
Among tlie rocks and winding scars; 
Where deep and low the hamlets Ue 
Beneath tlieir little patch of sky 
And little lot of stars : 

And all along the indented coast, 
Bespattered with the salt-sea foam ; 
Where'er a knot of houses lay 
On headland, or in hollow bay ; — 
Sure never man like him did roam ! 

As well might Peter, in the Fleet, 
Have been fast bound, a begging debtor ;— 
He travelled here, he travelled there ;— 
But not the value of a hair 
Was heart or head the better. 

He roved among the vales and stj earns, 
In the green wood and hollow df /I ; 
They were his dwellings night and day,— 
But Nature ne'er could find the way 
Into the heart of Peter Bell. 

In vain, through every changeful year, 
Did Nature lead him as before . 
A primrose by a river's brim 
A yellow primrose was to him, 
And it was nothing more. 

Small change it made in Peter's heart 
To see his gentle panniered tram 
With more than vernal pleasure feeding 
Where'er the tender grass was leading 
Us eavliest green along the lane. 

In vain, through water, earth, and air, 
The soul of happy sound was sj^ead. 
When Peter on some A]iril morn, 
Beneath the broom or budding thorn, 
Made the warm earth his lazy bed. 

At noon, when, by the forest's edge 
He lay beneath the branches high, 
The soft blue sky did never melt 
Into his heart : he never felt 
The witchery of the soft blue sky ! 

On a fair prospect some have looked 
And felt, as I have heard them tay, 
As if the moving time had been 
A thing as steadfast as the scene 
On which they gazed themselves away. 

Within the breast of Peter Bell 
These silent raptures found no place; 
He was a Carl as wild and rude 
As ever hue-and-crv pursued, 
> As ever ran a felon's race. 



Of all that lead a lawless life. 

Of all that love their lawless lives. 

In city or in village small, 

He was the wildest far of all ; — 

He had a dozen wedded wives. 

Nay, start not ! — wedded wives '- and 
twelve ! [him. 

But how one wife could e'er come ncai 
In simple truth I cannot tell ; 
For, be it said of Peter Bell, 
To see him was to fear him. 

Though Nature could not touch his hear! 
By lovely forms, and silent weather, 
And tender sounds, yet you might see 
At once, that Pettr Bell and she 
Had often been together. 

A savage wildness round him hung 
As of a dweller out of doors ; • 

In his whole figure and his mien 
A savage character was seen 
Of mountains and of dreary moors. 

To all the unshaped half-human thoughts 

Which solitary Nature feeds 

'Mid summer storms or winter's ice, 

Had Peter joined whatever vice 

The cruel city breeds. 

His face was keen as is the wind 
That cuts along the hawthorn-fence; 
Of courage you saw little there, 
But, in its stead, a medley air 
Of cunning and of impudence. 

He had a dark and sidelong walk. 
And long and slouching was his gait; 
Beneath his looks so bare and bold, 
You might perceive, his spirit cold 
Was playing with some inward bait. 

His forehead wrinkled was and furred ; 
A work, one half of which was done 
By thinking of his ' whens ' and ' hows, " 
And half, by knitting of his brows 
Beneath the glaring sun. 

There was a hardness in his cheek, 
There was a hardness in his eye, 
As if the man had fixed his face, 
In many a solitary place, 
Against the wind and open sky I 



One night (and now my little Bess I 
We've reached at last the promised Tale). 
One beautiful Novanber night. 
When the full moon was shining bright 
Upon the rapid river Swale, 



2i8 



PETER BELL. 



Along the river's windincj banks 
Peter was travelling all alunc ; — 
Wliether to buy or sell, or led 
By pleasure running in his head, 
To me was never known. 

He trudged along through copse and brake. 
He trudged along o'er hill and dale ; 
Nor for the moon cared he a tittle, 
And for the stars he cared as little, 
And for the murmuring tiver Swale, 

But, chancing to espy a path 
That promised to cut short tiic way; 
As many a wiser man hatli done, 
He left a trusty guide for one 
That might his steps betray. 

To a thick wood he soon is brought 
\Vhcr» cheerily his course he weaves, 
And whistling loud may yet be hc.ird. 
Though often buried, like a bird 
Darkling, among the boughs and leaves. 

But quickly Peter's mood is changed, 
And on he drives with checks that burn 
In downright fury and in wrath ; — 
There's little sign the treacherous path 
Will to the road return ! 

The path grows dim, and dimmer still ; 
Now up, now down, the Rover wends, 
With all the sail that he can carry, 
Till brouglit to a deserted quarry — 
And there the pathway ends. 

He paused — for shadows of strange shape, 

Massy and black, before him lay ; 

But through the dark, and through the 

cold, 
And through the yawning fissures old, 
Did Peter boldly press his way 

Right through the quarry : — and behold 
A scene of soft and lovely hue ! 
Where blue and gray, and tender green, 
Together make as sweet a scene 
As ever human eye did view. 

Beneath the clear blue sky he saw 
A little field of meadow ground ; 
But field or meadow name it not ; 
Call it of earth a small green plot, 
With rocks encompassed round. 

The Swale flowed under the gray rocks, 
But he flowed quiet and unseen ; — 
Y ni need a strong and stormy g.ile 
To bring tlie noises of tlic Swale 
To that green spot, so calm and green I 



And is there no one dwelling Iiere, 
No hermit with his beads and glass ? 
And does no little cottage look 
Upon this soft and fertile nook ? 
Does no one live near this green grass t 

Across the deep and quiet spot 
Is Peter driving through the grass — 
And now has reached the skirting trees', 
When, turning round his head, he sees 
A solitary Ass. 

" A prize ! " cries Peter — but he first 
Must spy about him far and near: 
There's not a single house in sight. 
No woodman's-hut, no cottage lights 
Peter, you need not fear ! 

There's nothing to be seen but woods, 
And rocks that spread a loary gleam, 
And this one IJeast, that from the bed 
Of the green meadow hangs his head 
Over the silent stream. 

His head is with a halter bound; 
The halter seizing, Peter leapt 
Upon the Creature's back, r nd plied 
Witii ready heels his shagg si ^; 
But still the Ass his station Kept. 

Then Peter gave a sudden jerk, 
A jerk that from a dungeon-floor 
Would have pulled up an iron ring ; 
But still the heavy-headed Thing 
Stood just as he had stood before ! 

Quoth Peter, leaping from his seat, 
" There is some plot against me laid ;" 
Once more the little meadow ground 
And all the hoary cliffs around 
He cautiously surveyed. 

All, all is silent — rocks and wc ods, 
All still and silent — far and near! 
Only the Ass, with motion dull. 
Upon the pivot of his skull 
Turns round his long left ear. 

Thought Peter, What can mean all this? 
Some ugly witchcraft must be here ! 
— Once more the Ass, with motion dull, 
Upon the pivot of his skull 
Turned round his long left ear, 

Suspicion ripened into dread, 
Yei with deliberate action slow. 
His staff high-raising, in the pride 
Of skill, upon tlie sounding hide, 
He dealt a sturdy blow. 



PETER BELL. 



219 



T!ic poor Ass staggered with the shock ; 
And then, as if to take his ease, 
In quiet uncomplaining mood, 
Upon the spot wliere he had stood, 
Dropped gently down i;pon his knees ; 

As gently on his side he fell ; 
^nd by the river's brink did lie ; 
A,nd, while he lay like one that mourned, 
J'he patient Beast on Peter turned 
His shining hazel eye. 

'Twas but one miid. reproachful look, 
A look more tender tlian severe: 
And straight in sorrow, not in dread, 
lie turned the cyc-ba!l in his head 
To.vards the smooth river deep and clear. 

Upon the Reast the sajjling rings ; 

}iis lank sides heaved, his limbs they stirred; 

lie gave a groan, and tiien another, 

Ui duit which went before the brother, 

And then he gave a third. 

All by the moonlight river side 
He g:ive three miserable groans: 
And not till now hath Peter seen 
How gaunt the Creature is, — how Itan 
And sharp his staring bones I 

Willi legs stretched out and stiff he lay : — 
No word of kind commiseration 
Fell at the sight from Peter's tongue : 
With haid contempt his heart was wrung. 
With hatred and vexation. 

The meagre beast lay still as death ; 
And Peter's lips with fury quiver ; 
Quoth he, " You little mulish dog, 
Pll fling your carcass like a log 
Head-foremost down the river ! " 

An impious oath confirmed the threat — 
Whereat from the earth on wliich he lay 
To all the echoes, south and north, 
And east and west, the Ass sent forth 
A long and clamorous bray ! 

This outcry, on the heart of Peter, 
Seems like a note of jov to strike, — 
joy at the heart of Peter knocks ; 
Hut in the echo of the rocks 
Was something Peter did not like, 

\Miether to cheer his coward breast, 
()! tliat he could not break the chain. 
In tl;is serene and solemn hour. 
Twined tound him by demoniac power, 
To the blind work he turned aiiain. 



Among the rocks and winding crags ^ 
Among the mountains far away : 
Once more the Ass did lengthen out 
More ruefully a deep-drawn shcut, 
The hard dry see-saw of his horrible bray I 

What is there now in Peter's heart ? 
Or whence the might of tliis strange sound ? 
The moon uneasy looked and dimmer, 
Th.e broad blue lieavens appeared to glimmer, 
And the rocks staggered all around— 

From Peter's hand the sapling dropped! 
Threat has he none to execute ; 
" If any one should cnme and s?e 
That J am here, they'll think," quoth he, 
•' I'm helping this poor dying brute." 

He scans the Ass from limb to limb, 
And ventures now to uplift his eyes ; 
More -steady looks the moon, and clear. 
More like themselves the rocks appear 
And touch more quiet skies. 

His scorn returns — his hate revives ; 
He stoops the Ass's neck to seize 
With malice — that again takes flight; 
For in the pool a startl.ng sight 
Meets him, among the inverted trees. 

^s it the Moon's distorted face ? 
The ghost-like image of a cloud ? 
Is it a gailows there portrayed.'' 
Is Peter of himself afraid ? 
Is it a coffin, — or a shroud t 

A grisly idol hewn in stone? 
Or imp from witch's lap let fall ? 
Perhaps a ring of shining fairies? 
Such as pursue their feared vagaries 
In sylvan bower, or haunted hall ? 

Is it a fiend that to a stake 

Of fire his desperate self is tctlnring ? 

Or stubborn spirit doomed to yell 

In solitary ward or cell. 

Ten thousand miles from all his bicthrcn J 

Never did pulse so quickly throb. 
And never heart so loudly panted : 
He looks, he cannot choose but look; 
Like some one reading in a book — 
A book that is enchanted. 

Ah, well-a-day for Peter Bell ! 
He will be turned to iron soon. 
Meet Statue for the court of Fear \ 
His hat is w';^ — and every hair 
Bristles, and whitens in the moon.' 



220 



PETER BELL. 



He looks, he ponders, looks again ; 

He sees a motion — hears a groan ; 

His eyes will burst — his heart will break — 

He gives a loud and frightful shriek, 

And back he falls, as if his life were tlown! 

PART SECOND. 

We left our Hero in a trance, 
Beneatli the alders, near the river , 
The Ass is by the river-side, 
And, where the feeble breezes glide, 
Upon the stream the moonbeams quiver 

A happy respite ! but at length 
He feels the glimmering of tiie moon ; 
VV.ikes with glazed eye, and feebly sighing— 
To sink, perhaps, where he is lying, 
Into a second swoon ! 

He lifts his head, he sees his staff ; 

He touch -s— 'tis to him a treasure! 

Faint recollection seems to tell 

Tliat he is yet where mortals dwell — 

A thouglit received with languid pleasure ! 

His head upon his elbow propped, 
Becoming less and less perplexed. 
Sky-ward he looks — to rock and wood — 
And tlien— upon the glassy flood 
His wandering eye is nxed. 

Thought he, that is the face of one 
In Ills last sleep securely bound ! 
So toward tiie stream his head he bent, 
And downward tlirust his staff, intent 
The river's depth to sound. 

A'bTr— like a tempest shattered bark. 
That overwhelmed and prostrate lies, 
.And in a moment to tiie verge 
Is lifted of a foaming surge — 
Full suddenly the Ass doth rise ! 

His staring bones all shake with joy, 
And close by Peter's side he stands, 
While Peter o'er the river bends. 
The little Ass his neck extends. 
And fondly licks his hands. 

Such life is in the Ass's eyes, 
Such life is in liis limbs and cars, 
Tiiat Peter P>eil, if he had been 
The veriest cov/ard ever seen. 
Must now have thrown aside his fears 

The Ass looks on — and to his work 
Is Peter quietly resigned ; 
He touches here— he touches thore — 
And now among the de;id man's hair 
His sapling Peter has entwined. 



He pulls — and looks — and pulls again ; 
.And he whom the poor Ass had lost, 
'I'lie man who had been four days dead, 
Head-foremost from the river's bed 
Uprises like a ghoSt ! 

And Peter draws him to dry land ; 
.'\nd througli tlie brain of Peter pass 
Some poignant twitches, fast and faster ; 
" No doubt," quoth he, " he is the Mastci 
Of this poor miserable Ass ! " 

The meagre Shadow that looks on — 
Wliat would he now ? what is he doing ? 
His sudden fit of joy is flown, — 
He on his knees hath laid him down, 
As if he were his grief renewing ; 

But no — tliat Peter on his back 
Must mount, he sliows well as he can : 
Thought Peter then, come weal or woe, 
I'll do what he would have me do, 
In pity to this poor drowned man. 

With that resolve he boldly mounts 
Upon the pleased and thankful Ass ; 
And then, without a moment's stay, 
That earnest Creature turned away, 
Leaving the body on the grass. 

Intent upon his faithful watch. 
The Beast four days and nights had past; 
A sweeter meadow ne'er was seen. 
And there the Ass four days had Ijcen, 
Nor ever once did break his fast: 

Yet firm his step, and stout his lieart ; 
The mead is crossed — the quarry's mouth 
Is reached ; but tiiere the trusty guide 
Into a thicket turns aside. 
And deftly ambles towards the south. 

When hark a burst of doleful sound ! 
And Peter honestly might say, 
The like came never to his ears, 
Though he has been, full thirty years, 
A rover— night and day ! 

'Tis not a plover of the moors, 

'Tis not a bittern of the fen ; 

Nor can it be a barking fox, 

Nor night-bird chambered in the rocks 

Nor wild-cat in a woody glen ! 

The Ass is startled — and stops sliort 
Right in tiie middle of the thicket; 
And Poter, wont to whi.Ntle loud 
Wlictlicf alone or m a crowd, 
Is silent as a silent cricket. 



PETER BELL. 



221 



What ails you now, my little Bess ? 
Well may you tremble and look grave ! 
This cry — th?t rings along the wood, 
'I'll is cry — that floats adovvn the flood, 
Conies from the entrance of a cave : 

I see a blooming Wood-boy there, 
And if I had the power to say 
How sorrowful the wanderer is, 
Your heart would be as sad as Iiis 
Till you had kissed his tears away ! 

Grasping a hawthorn branch in hand, 
Ail bright with berries ripe and red, 
Into tlie cavern's mouth he peeps ; 
Thence back into the moonlight creeps ; 
Whom seeks he — whom ? — the silent dead 

His father ! — Him doth he require — 
Him hath he sought with fruitless j a.ns, 
Among the rocks, behind the trees ; 
Now creeping on his hands and knees, 
Now running o'er the open plains. 

And hither is he come at last, 
When he through such a day has gone, 
By this dark cave to be distrest 
Like a poor bird — her plundered nest 
Hovering around witl) dolorous moan ! 

Of that intense and piercing cry 
The listening Ass conjectures well ; 
Wild as it is, he there can read 
Some intermingled notes that plead 
With touches irresistible. 

But Peter— when he saw the Ass 
Not only stop but turn, and change 
The cherished tenor of his pace 
Tiiat lamentable cry to chase — 
It wrought in him conviction strange ; 

A faith that, for the dead man's sake 
And this poor slave wiio loved him well, 
Vengeance upon his head will fall, 
Some visitation worse then all 
Which ever till this night befell. 

Meanwhile the Ass to reach his home. 
Is striving stoutly as he may ; 
But, while he climbs the woody hill. 
The cry grows weak — and weaker still ; 
And now at last it dies away. 

So with his freight the Creature turns 
Into a gloomy grove of beech. 
Along the shade with footsteps true 
Descending slowly, till the two 
The open moonliglit reach. 



And there, along t»he narrow dell, 
A fair smooth pathway you discern, 
A length of green and open road — 
As if it from a founta n flowed — 
Winding away between the fern. 

The rocks that tower on either side 
Build up a wild fantastic scene ; 
Temples like those among the Hindoos, 
And mosques, and spires, and abb:'y windows* 
And castles all with ivy green ! 

And, while the Ass pursues his way, 
Along this solitary dell, 
As pensively his steps advance. 
The mosques and spires change counte- 
nance, ^ 
And look at Peter Bell ! 

That unintelligible cry 
Hath left him high in preparation, — 
Convinced that he, or soon or late, 
This very night will meet his fate — 
And so he sits in expectation! 

The strenuous Animal hath clomb 
With the green path ; and now lie wends 
Where, shining like the smoothest sea, 
In undisturbed immensity 
A level plain extends. 

But whence this faintly-rustling sound 
By which the journeying pair are chased ? 
— A withered leaf is close behind, 
Light plaything for the sportive, wind 
Upon that solitary waste. 

When Peter spied the moving thing, 
It only doubled his distress ; 
" Where there is not a bush or tree. 
The /ery leaves they follow niL — 
So huge hath been my wickedness!" 

To a close lane they now are come, 
Where, as before, the enduring Ass 
Moves on without a moment's stop, 
Nor once turns round his head to crop 
A bramble-leaf or blade of grass. 

Between the hedges as they go, 
The white dust sleeps upon the lane ; 
And Peter, ever and anon 
Back-looking, sees, upon a stone, 
Or in the dust, a crimson stain. 

A stain — as of a drop of blood 

By moonlight made more faint and wan , 

Ha! why these sinkings of despair ? 

He knows not how tlie blood cumes there — 

And Peter is a wicked man. 



222 



PETER BELL. 



At iensjth he spies a bleeding wuund, 
Where he had struck the Ass's head; 
He sees the blood, knows wliat it is,— 
A glimpse of sudden joy was his, 
lUit then it quickly fled ; 

Of him whom sudden death had seized 
H." thought,— of thee, O faithful Ass ! 
And once again those ghastly pains 
Shoot to and fro through heart and reins, 
And through his brain like lightning pass. 

PART THIRD. 

I've heard of one, a gentle Soul, 
Tliough given to sadness and to gloom, 
And for the fact will vouch, — one night 
It chanced that bf a taper's light 
This man was reading in his room; 

Bending, as you or I might bend 
At night o'er any pious book, 
When sudden blackness overspread 
The snow-white page on which he read, 
And made the good man round him look. 

The chamber walls were dark all round, — 
And to his book he turned again ; 
— The light had left the lonely taper, 
And formed itself upon the paper 
Into large letters — bright and plain ! 

The godly book was in his hand — 
And, on the page, more black than coal, 
Appeared, set forth in strange array, 
A -ivord — which to his dying day 
I'erplexed the good man's gentle soul. 

The ghostly word, thus plainly seen, 
Did never from his lips depart : 
But he hath said, poor gentle wight ! 
It brought full many a sin to light 
Out of the bottom of his heart. 

Drend Spirits ! to confound the meek 
Why wander from your course so far. 
Disordering color, form and stature! 
— Let good men feel the soul of nature, 
And see things as they are. 

/et, potent Spirits ! well I know, 
How ye, that play with soul and sense, 
Are not unused to trouble friends 
Of goodness, for most gracious ends — 
And this I speak in reverence. 

But might I give advice to you. 
Whom in my fear I love so well ; 
From men of pensive virtue go, 
Dread Beings ! and your empire show 
On lieaEts like that of Peter Bell. 



Your presence often have I felt 

In darkness and the stormy night; 

And, with like force, if need there be, 

Ve can put forth your agency 

When earth is calm, and lieaven is bright 

Then, coming from the wayward world, 
That powerful world in which ye dwell, 
Come, Spirits of the Mind ! and try 
To-night, beneath the moonlight sky, 
What may be done with Peter Bell I 

— O, would that some more skilful voice 
My further labor might prevent ! 
Kind Listeners, that around me sit, 
I feel that I am all unfit 
For such high argument. 

I've played, I've danced, with my narration' 
I loitered long ere I began : 
Ye waited then on my good pleasure; 
Pour out indulgence still, in measure 
As liberal as ye can ! 

Our Travellers, ye remember well, 
Are thridding a sequestered lane ; 
And Peter many tricks is trying, 
And many anodynes applying, 
To ease his conscience of its pain. 

By this his heart is lighter far; 
And, finding that he can account 
So snugly for that cnmson stain, 
Ilis evil spirit up again 
Docs like an empty bucket mount. 

And Peter is a deep logician 

Who hath no lack of wit mercurial ; 

" Blood drops — leaves rustle — yet,'' quo^b 

he, 
" This poor man never, but f( r me. 
Could have had Christian bunal. 

And, say the best you can, 'tis plain, 
That here has oeen some wicked dealing ; 
No doubt the devil in me wrought ; 
I'm not the man who could have thought 
An Ass like this was v/orth the stealing ! " 

So from his pocket Peter takes 
His shining horn tobacco-box ; 
And, in a light and careless way, 
As men who with their purpose play, 
Upon the lid he knocks. 

Let them v/hose voice can stop the cloudSj 
I Wiiose cunning eye can see the wind, 
I Tell to a curious world the cause 
I Why, making here a sudden pause, 
j The Ass turned round his head, aik^ 
irrinned. 



PETER DELL. 



32' 



Appalling process! I have marked 
The like on hcatii, in lonely wood ; 
And, verily, have seldom met 
A spectacle more hid.-ous — yet 
It suited Peter's pr*»sent mood. 

And, grinning in Lis turn, his teeth 
■ie in jocose defiance showed — 
A'hen, to upset his spiteful mirth, 
A murmur, pent withm the earth. 
In the dead earth beneath the road, 

Rolled audibly ! it swept along, 
A muffled noise— a rumbling sound ! — 
'Twas by a troop of miners made, 
Plying with gunpowder their trade, 
Some twenty fathoms underground. 

Small cause of dire effect ! for, surely, 
If ever mortal. King or Cotter, 
Believed that earth was charged to quake 
And yawn for his unworthy sake, 
'Twas Peter Bell the Potter. 



N 



But, as an oak in breathless air 
Will stand though to the centre hewn : 
Or as tlie weakest things, if frost 
Have stiffened them, maintain their post ; 
o he, beneath the gazing moon ! — 



The Beast, bestriding thus, he reached 
A spot where, in a sheltering cove, 
A little chapel stands alone, 
With greenest ivy overgrown, 
And tufted with an ivy grove ; 

Dying insensibly away 
From human thouglits and purposes. 
It seemed — wall, window, roof and tower 
To bow to some transforming power, 
And blend with the surrounding trees. 

As ruinous a place it was, 
Thought Peter, in the shire of Fife 
That served my turn, when following still 
From land to land a reckless will 
I married my sixth wife ! 

The unheeding Ass moves slowly on, 
And now is passing by an inn 
Brim-full of a carousing crew. 
That make, with curses not a few. 
An uproar and a drunken din. 

I cannot well express the thoughts 
Which Peter in those noises found ; — 
A stifling power compressed his frame, 
While-as a swimming darkness came 
Over that dull and dreary sound. 



For well did Petor know the sound , 
Tiie language of those drunken joys 
To him, a jovial soul, I ween, 
But a few liours ago, had been 
A gladsome and a welcome noise. 

Now^ turned adrift into the past, 
He finds no solace in his course ; 
Like planet-stricken men of yore, 
He trembles, smitten to the core 
By strong compunction and remorse. 

But, more than all, his heart is stung 
To think of one, almost a child : 
A sweet and playful Highland girl, 
As light and beauteous as a squirrel, 
As beauteous and as wild ! 

Her dwelling was a lonely house, 
A cottage in a heathy dell ; 
And she put on her gown of green, 
And left her mother at sixteen. 
And followed Peter Bell. 

But many good and pious thoughts 
Had she ; and, in the kirk to pray. 
Two long Scotch miles, through ram 03 

snow, 
To kirk she had been used to go, 
Twice every Sabbath-day. 

And, when she followed Peter Bell,' 
It was to lead an honest life ; 
For he, with tongue not used to falter, 
Had pledged his troth before the altar 
To love her as his wedded wife. 

A mother's hope is hers ; — but soon 
She drooped and pined like one forlorn; 
From Scripture she a name did borrov. ; 
Benoni, or the child of sorrow. 
She called her babe unborn. 

For she had learned how Peter lived, 
And took it in most grievous part ; 
She to the very bone was worn. 
And, ere that little child was born, 
Died of a broken heart. 

And now the Spirits of the Mind 
Are busy with poor Peter Hell ; 
Upon the rights of visual sense 
Usurping, with a prevalence 
More terrible than magic spell. 
Close by a brake of flowering furze 
(Above it shivering aspens play) 
He sees an unsubstantial creature, 
His very self in form and feature. 
Not four yards from the broad highway: 



224 



PETER BELL. 



And stretched beneath the furze he sees 
The Highland girl — it is no other ; 
And hears her crying as she cried, 
The very moment that she died, 
" My motiijr 1 oh my niotlier! '' 

The sweat pours down from Peter's face, 
So grievous is h s heart's contrition ; 
With agony liis eye-balls ache 
While he beholds by the furze-brake 
This miserable vision ! 

Calm is the well-deserving brute, 
His peace hath no offence betrayed ; 
But now, while down that slope he wends, 
A voice to Peter's ear ascends, 
ReGounding from the woody glade : 

The voice, though clamc rous as a horn 

Re-echoed by a naked rock. 

Comes from that tabernacle — List ! 

Within, a ferven' Methodist 

Is preaching to no heedless flock! 

" Repent ! repent ! " he cries aloud, 
" V^.^'hile yet ye may find mercy ; — strive 
To love the Lord with all your might; 
Turn to him, seek him day and night, 
And save your souls alive I 

Repent ! repent ! though ye have gone, 
Through paths of wickedness and woe, 
After the Babylonian harlot ; 
And, though your sins be red as scarlet, 
They shall be white as snow ! " 

Even as he passed the door, these words 
Did ]ilainly come to Peter's ears; 
And they such joyful tidings were, 
The joy was more than he could bear ! — 
He melted into tears. 

►ivveet tears of hope and tenderness ? 
And fast they fell, a plenteous shower ! 
His nerves, his sinews seem to melt r 
Through all his iron frame was felt 
A gentle, a relaxing, power ! 

Each fibre of his frame was weak ; 
Weak all the animal within ; 
But, in its helplessness, grew mild 
And gentle as an infant child. 
An infant that has known no sin. 



•'TIS said, meek Beast ! that, 

Heaven's grace, 
He not unmoved did notice now 
'i"he cross upon thy shoulder scored 
For lasting impress, by the Lord 
To whom all human-kind shall bow 



Memorial of his touch —that day 
When Jesus humbly deigned to ride, 
Ei.cering the proud Jerusalem, 
by an immeasurable stream 
Of shouting people deified ! 

Meanwhile the persevering Ass 
Turned towards a gate that hung in viev 
Across a shady lane ; his chest 
Against the yielding gate he pressed 
And quietly passed through. 

And up the stony lane he goes ; 
No ghost more softly ever trod ; 
Among the stones and pebbles, ho 
Sets down his hoofs inaudibly. 
As if with felt his hoofs were shod. 

Along the lane the trusty Ass 

Went twice two hundred yards or moie, 

And no one could have guessed his aini,-- 

Till to a lonely house he came, 

And stopped beside the door. 

Thought Peter, 'tis the poor man's home! 
He listens — net a sound is heard 
Save from the trickling household rill ; 
But, stepping o'er the cottage-sill, 
Forthwith a little Girl appeared. 

She to the Meeting-house was bound 
In hopes some tidings there to gather: 
No glimpse it is, no doubtful gleam ; 
She saw — and uttered with a scream, 
" My father ! here's my father ! " 

The very word was plainly heard. 
Heard plainly by the wretched Mother- 
Her joy was like a deep affright : 
And forth she rushed into the light, 
And saw it was another .' 

And, instantly, upon the earth, 
Beneath the full moon shining bright, 
Close to the Ass's feet she fell ; 
At the same moment Peter Bell 
Dismounts in most unhaj)py plight. 

As he beheld the Woman lie 
Breathless and motionless, tiie mind 
Of Petei sadly was confused : 
But, though tc such demands unused 
And helpless almost as the -.md, 

He raised her up : and, while he held 
Her body propped against his knee, 
The Woman waked— and when she spied 
The poor Ass standing by her side, 
She moaned most bitterly. 



PETER BELL. 



225 



" Oh ! God be praised — my heart's at ease — 

For he is dead — I know it well ! " 

— At this she wept a bitter flood ; 

And, in the best way that he could, 

His tale did Peter tell. 

He trembles — he is pale as death ; 

His voice is weak with perturbation; 

He tarns aside his head, he pauses ; 

Poor Peter, from a thousand causes, 

Is crippled sore in his narration. 

At length she learned how he espied 

The Ass in that small meadow-ground ; 

And that her husband now lay dead, 

Beside that luckless river's bed 

In wiiich he had been drowned. 

A piercing look the Widow cast 

Upon the Beast that near her stands; 

She sees 'tis he, that 'tis the same ; 

She calls the poor Ass by his name, 

And wrings, and wrings her hands. 

" O wretched loss — untimely stroke ! 

If he had died upon his bed 1 

He knew not one forewarning pain ; 

He never will come home again — 

Is dead, forever dead 1 " 

Beside the Woman Peter stands : 

His heart is opening more and more; 

A holy sense pervades his mind ; 

He feels what he for human kind 

Had never felt before. 

At length, by Peter's arm sustained, 

The Woman rises from the ground — 

"Oh, mercy ! something must be done. 

My little Rachel, you must run, — 

Some willing neighbor must be found. 

Make haste — my little Rachel — do, 

The first you meet with — bid him come, 

Ask him to lend his horse to-night. 

And this good Man, whom Heaven requite, 

Will help to bring the body home.'' 

Away goes Rachel weeping loud; — 

An Infant, waked by her distress. 

Makes in the house a piteous cry ; 

And Peter hears the Mother sigh, 

" Seven are they, and all fatherless ! " 

And now is Peter taught to feel 

That Man's heart is a holy thirg ; 

And Nature, through a world of death, 

Breathes into him a second breath, 

More searching than the breath of spiing. 

Upon a stone the Woman sits 

In agony of silent grief — 

From his own thoughts did Peter start ; 

He longs to press her to his heart, 

From love that cannot find relief. 



But roused, as if through every limb 

Had past a sudden shock of dread, 

The Mother o'er the threshold flics 

And up the cottage stairs she hies. 

And on the pillar lays her burning head 

And Peter turns his steps aside 

Into a shade of darksome trees, 

Where he sits down, he knows not how. 

With his hands pressed against his brow, 

His elbows on his tremulous knees. 

There, self-involved, does Peter sit 

Until no sign of life he makes. 

As if his mind were sinkmg deep 

Through years tliat have been long asleep! 

The trance is passed away— he wakes ; 

He lifts his head— and sees the Ass 

Yet standing in the clear moonshme : 

" When shall 1 be as good as thou .? 

Oh ! would, poor beast, that I had now 

A heart but half as good as thine ! " 

But He — who deviously hath sought 

His Father through the lonesome woods, 

Hath sought, proclaiming to the ear 

Of night his grief and sorrowful fear — 

He comes, escaped from fields and floods ;- 

With weary pace is drawing nigh ; 

He sees the Ass— and nothing living 

Had ever such a fit of joy 

As hath this little orphan Boy, 

For he has no misgiving ! 

Forth to the gentle Ass ho sprin^^s. 

And up about his neck he climbs ; 

In loving words he talks to him, 

He kisses, kisses face and limb, — 

He kisses him a thousand times ! 

This Peter sees, while in the shade 

He stood beside the cottage-door ; 

And Peter Bell, the rnffian wild. 

Sobs loud, he sobs even like a child, 

" Oh ! God, I can endure no more ! " 

— Here ends my Tale : for in a trice 

Arrived a neighbor with his horse ; 

Peter went forth with him straightway, 

And, with due care, ere break of day 

Together they brought back the Corse. 

And many years did this poor Ass, 

Whom once it was my luck to see 

Cropping the shrubs of Leming-Lane, 

Help by his labor to maintain 

The Widow and her family. 

And Peter Bell, who, till that night, 

Had been the wildest of his clan. 

Forsook his crimes, renounced his folly. 

And, after ten months' melanclioly, 

Became a good and honest man. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 



DEDICATION. 



Happy tlie feeling from the bosom thrown 
In perfect shape (wliose beauty Time shall 

spare 
Though a breath made it) like a bubble 

blown 
For summer pastime into wanton air , 
Happy the thouglit best likened to a stone 
Of the sea-beach, when, polished with nice 

care, 
Veins it discovers exquisite and rare, 



Which for the loss of that moist gleaOi 

atone 
That tempted first to gather it. That 

here, 
O chief of Friends! such feelings 1 i)rescnt, 
To thy regard, witli thoughts so fortunate, 
Were a vain notion ; but the hope is dear, 
'i'hat thou, if not with partial joy elate, 
Wilt smile upon tins gift with more than 

mild content ! 



PART 



Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow 

room ; 
And hermits are contented with their cells , 
And students with their pensive citadels , 
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, 
Sit blithe and happy ; bees that soar for 

bloom. 
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, 
will murmur by the hour in foxglove belis 
In truth the prison, unto which we doom 
Ourselves, no prison is and hence for me, 
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be Ixiund 
Witiiin the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground ; 
Pleased if some Souls (for such tliere n.icds 

must be) 
Who have felt the weight of too much lib- 
erty. 
Should find brief solace there, as I have 
found. 

II. 

ADMONITION. 

Intended more particularly for the perusal of 
those who may have hnppened lo be en- 
amomed of some bt-autiful Place of Retreat, 
in the Country of the Lakes. 



Well inay'sl thou halt — and gaze with 

brightening eye! 
The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook 
Hath stirred thee deeply ; with its own 

dear brook, 
Its own small pasture, almost its own sky ! 
But covet not the Abode , — forbear to sigh, 
As many do, repining while they look ; 
Intruders — who would tear from Nature's 

book 
This precious leaf, with harsh impiety. 
Think what the Home must be if it were 

tliine. 
Even thine, though few thy wants ! — Roof, 

window, door, 
The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, 
The roses to the porch which they entwhic 
Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the 

day 
On which it should be touched, would melt 

away. 

Ill, 
'' Beloved Vale!" I said, " When I shall 

con 
Those many records of my childish years, 
R'^mcmbrance of myself and of my peers 
Will press me down • to think of what is 

gone 
Willbe an awful thought, if life have one." 



MISCELLANEO US SONNE TS. 



227 



But, when into th:; Vale I came, no fears 
Distressed me ; from mine eyes escaped no 

tears ; 
Deep thought, or dread remembrance, had 

I none. 
By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost 
I stood, of simple shame the bhishing 

Thrall : 
So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so 

small ! 
A Juggler's balls old Time about him 

tossed ; [all 

I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed : and 
The weight of sadness was in wonder lost. 

IV. 
AT ArrLETHWAITE, NEAR KESWICK 

1S04. 

Beaumont ! it was thy wish that I should 

rear 
A seemly Cottage in this sunny Dell, 
On favored ground, thy gift, where I might 

dwell 
In neigiiborhood with One to me most dear, 
That undivided we from year to year 
Might work in our high Calling — a bright 

hope 
To which our fancies, mingling, gave free 

scope 
Till checked by some necessities severe. 
And should these slacken, honored Beau- 
mont ! still 
Even then we may perhaps in vain implore 
Leave of our fate thy wishes to fulfil. 
Whether this boon be granted us or not, 
Old Skiddaw will look down upon the Spot 
With pride, the Muses love it evermore. 

V. 

iSoi. 
Pei.ion and Ossa flourish side by side, 
Togetiier in immortal books enrolled , 
His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold ; 
And that inspiring Hill, which " did divide 
Into two ample horns his forehead wide," 
Shines with poetic radiance as of old ; 
While not an English Mountain we behold 
By the celestial Muses glorified. 
Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in 

crowds • 
What was the great Parnassus' self to Thee, 
Mount Skiddaw ? In his natural sov- 
ereignty 
Our British Hill is nobler far ; he shrouds 
His double front among Atlantic clouds. 
And pours forth streams more sweet than 
Castaly. 



There is a little unpretending Rill 
Of limpid water, humbler far than aught 
That ever among Men or Naiads sought 
Notice or name ! — It quivers down the hill, 
Furrowing its shallow way with dubious 

will ; 
Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is 

brought 
Oftener than Ganges or the Nile ; a thought 
Of private recollection sweet and still ! 
Months perish with their moons . year 

treads on year ; 
But, faithful Emma ! thou with me canst 

say 
That, while ten thousand pleasures disap- 
pear. 
And flies their memory fast almost as they ; 
The immortal Sjiirit of one happy day 
Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear. 



Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat 

Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied , 

With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at lier 

side, 
And the glad Muse at liberty to note 
All that to each is precious, as we float 
Gently along : regardless who shall chide 
If the heavens smile, and leave us free to 

glide, 
Happy Associates breathing air remote 
From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the 

Muse, 
Why have I crowded this small bark with 

you 
And others of your kind, ideal crew ! 
WHiile here sits One whose brightness owes 

its hues 
To flesh and blood ; no Goddess from 

above. 
No fleeting spirit, but my own true Love ? ; 



The fairest, brightest, hues of ether fade ; 

The sweetest notes must terminate am; 
die ; 

O Friend! thy flute has breathed a har- 
mony 

Softly resounded through this rocky glade. 

Such strains of rapture as* the Genius 
played ; 



• See the Visiou of Mirza in the Spectator. 



228 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 



In his still haunt on Bagdad's summit 

high; 
He who stood visible to Mirza's eve, 
Never before to human sight betrayed, 
Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening 

spread I 
The visionary Arches are not there, 
Nor the green Islands, nor the shining 

Seas ; 
Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head, 
Whence I have risen, nplifred on the breeze 
Of liarmony, above all earthly care. 



UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PIC- 
TURE, 

Painted by Sir G. H. Beaumont, Bart 

Praisf,d be the Art whose subtle power 
could stay 

Yon cloud, and fix h in that glorious shape ; 

Nor would permit the thin smoke to es- 
cape, 

Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the 
day ; 

Which stopped that band of travellers on 
tlieir way, 

Ere they were lost within the shady woo:l , 

And showed the Baik upon the glassy flood 

Forever anchored in her sheltering bay. 

Soul-soothing Art I whom Morning, Noon- 
tide, Even, 

Do serve with all their changeful pageantry ; 

Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime, 

Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast 
given 
/ To one brief moment caught from fleeting 
time 

Tile appropriate calm of blest eternity. 



'* Why, Minstrel, these untuncful murmur- 
in gs — 
Dull, flagging notes that with each other 

jar?" 
" i hink, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far 
From its own country, and forgive the 

strings." 
A simple answer! but even so forth springs. 
From the Castalian fountain of the heart. 
The Poetry of Life, and all thai Art 
Divine of words quickening insensate 

tilings. 
From the submissive necks of guiltless 

men 
Stretched on the block, the glittering axe 
recoils : 



Sun, moon, and stars, all struggle in thd 

toils 
Of mortal sympathy : what wonder tlien 
That the poor Harp distempered music 

yields 
To its sad Lord, far from his native fields ? 



Aerial Rock — whose solitary brow 
From this low threshold daily meets my 

sight ; 
When I step forth to hail the morning 

light; 
Or quit the stars with a lingering farewell- 
how 
Shall Fancy pay to thee a grateful vow ? 
How, with the Muse's aid, her love attest ? 
— By planting on thy naked head the crest 
Of an imperial Castle, which the plough 
Of ruin shall not touch. Innocent scheme! 
That doth presume no more than to supply 
A graco the smuous vale and roaring stream 
Want, (lirouph neglect of hoar Antiquity. 
Rise, then, ye votive Towers ! and catch a 

gleam 
Of golden sunset, ere it fade and die. 



TO SLEEP. 

GENTLE SLEEP ! do they belong to thee, 
These twinklings of oblivion 1 Thou dost 

love 
To sit in meekness, like the bro iding Dove, 
A captive never wisi ing to be free. ; 
This tiresome nigiit, O Sleep! thou art to 

me 
A Fly, that up and down himself doth 

shove 
Upon a fretful rivulet, now above. 
Now on the water vexed with mockery. 

1 have no pain that calls for patience, no ; 
Hence am I cross and peevish as a child : 
Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe, 
Yet ever willing to be reconciled • 

O gentle Creature ! do not use me so, 
But once and deeply let me be beguiled. 

XIII. 
TO SLEEP 

Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, 

Sleep ! 
And thou hast had thy store of tenderest 

names; 
Tl e very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames, 
When thankfulness of heart is strong and 

deep I 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 



229 



Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost 

steep 
In rich reward all suffering ; Balm that 

tames 
A.11 anguish ; Saint that evil thoughts and 

aims 
Takest away, and into souls dost creep, 
Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I 

alone, 
r surely not a man ungently made, 
Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is 

crost ? 
Perverse, seif-willed to own and to disown. 
Mere slave of them who never for thee 

prayed, 
Still last to come where thou art wanted 

most! 

XIV. 

TO SLEEP. 

A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by. 
One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees 
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and 

seas, 
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and 

pure sky ; 
I have Uiought of all by turns, and yet do 

lie 
Sleepless I and soon the small birds' melo- 
dies 
Must hear, fust uttered from my orchard 

trees ; 
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.j 
Even thus last night, and two niglits more, I 

lay. 
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any 

stealth : 
So do not let me wear to-ni'^ht away : 
Without Thee what is all the morning's 

wealth ? 
Come, blessed barrier jjetween day and day, 
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous 

health ! 



XV. 



THE WILD DUCK'S NEST. 

The imperial Consort of the Fairy-king 
Owns not a sylvan bower ; or gorgeous cell 
With emerald floored, and with purpurea! 

shell 
Ceilinged and roofed ; that is so fair a thing 
'As this low structure, for the tasks of 

Spring, 
Prepared by one who loves the buoyant 

swell 



Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to 

dwell ; 
And spreads in steadfast peace her brooding 

wing. 
Words cannot paint the o'ershadowing yew- 
tree bough. 
And dimly-gleaming Nest, — a hollow crowt 
Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down. 
Fine as the mother's softest plumes allow : 
I gazed — and, self-accused wiiile gazing, 

sighed 
For human-kind, weak slaves of cumbrous 
pride ! 

XVI. 

WRITTEN UPON A BLANK LEAF IN "THE 

COMPLETE ANGLER." 

While flowing rivers yield a blameless 

sport, 
Shall live the name of Walton : Sage 

benign ! 
Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and 

line 
Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort 
To reverend watching of each still report 
That Nature utters from her rural shrine. 
Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline- 
He found the longest summer day too short, 
To his loved pastime given by sedgy Lee, 
Or down the tempting maze of Shawford 

brook — 
Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book, 
The cowslip-bank and shady wiHow-tree; 
And the fresh meads — where flowed, from 

every nook 
Of his full bosom, gladsome Piety I 

XVII. 
TO THE POET, JOHN DYER. 

Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful genius 

made 
That work a living landscape fair and 1)right . 
Nor hallowed less with musical delight 
Than tliose soft scenes through which thy 

childhood strayed. 
Those southern tracts of Cambria, *' deep 

embayed. 
With green hills fenced, with ocean's mur- 
mur lull'd ; " 
Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet 

culled 
For worthless brows, while in the pensive 

shade 
Of cold neglect she leaves thy head \\n 

graced. 
Yet pure and powerful minds, hcarti. meeii 

ahd still. 



230 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 



A 5jratefu] few, shall love thy modest Lay, 
Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall 

stray 
O'er naked Snowdon's wide aerial waste; 
Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar 

Hilll 



ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED 
Tilli PUliLlCATION OF A CERTAIN POEM. 

See Milton's Sonnet, beginning, " A Book 
was writ of late called ' Tetraclioi don.' " 

A Book came forth of late, called Peter 

Bell; 
Not negligent the style ;— the matter ? — 

good 
As aught that song records of Robin Hood ; 
Or Koy, renowned through many a Scottish 

dell; 
But some (who brook those hackneyed 

themes full well, 
Nor heat, at Tarn o' Shanter's name, their 

blood) 
Waxed wroth, and with foul claws, a harpy 

brood, 
On Bard and Hero clamorously fell. 
Heed not, wild Rover once through heath 

and glen, 
Who mad'st at length the better Hfe thy 

choice, 
Heed not such onset ! nay, if praise of men 
To thee appear not an unmeaning voice, 
Lift up that gray-haired forehead, and 

rejoice. 
In the just tribute of thy Poet's pen. 



Grief, thou hast lost an ever ready friend 
Now that the cottage Spinning-wheel is 

mute ; 
And Care — a comforter that best could suit 
Her froward mood, and softliest repr-hend ; 
And Love — a charmer's voice, that used to 

lend, 
More efficaciously than aught that flows 
From harp or lute, kind influence to compose 
The throbbing pulse — else troubled without 

end : 
Even Joy could tell, Joy craving truce and 

rest 
From her own overflow, what power sedate 
On those revolving motions did await 
Assiduously — to soothe her aching breast ; 
And, to a point of just relief, abate 
The mantling triumphs of a day too blest. 



Excuse is needless when with love sincere 

Of occupation, not by fashion led, 

Thou turn'st the Wheel that slept with dust 

o'erspread ; 
My nerves from no such murmur shrink,- - 

tho' near. 
Soft as the Dorhawk's to a distant ear, 
When twilight shades darken the mountain's 

head. 
Even She who toils to spin our vital thread 
Might smile on work, O Lady, once so dear 
To household virtues. Venerable Art, 
Torn from the Poor! yet shall kind Heaven 

protect 
Its own ; though Rulers, with undue respect, 
Trusting to crowded factory and mart 
And proud discoveries of the intellect, 
Heed not the pillage of man's ancient heart. 



composed in one of the valleys of 
westmoreland, on easter sunday. 

With each recurrence of this glorious morn 

That saw the Saviour in his human frame 

Rise from the dead, erewhile the Cottage- 
dame 

Put on fresh raiment — till that hour unworn : 

Domestic hands the home-bred wool had 
shorn. 

And she who span it culled the daintiest 
fleece. 

In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of 
Peace, 

Whose temples bled beneath the platted 
thorn. 

A blest estate when piety sublime 

These humble props disdained not ! O 
green dales I 

Sad may / be who heard your sabbath 
chime 

When Art's abused inventions were un- 
known ; 

Kind Nature's various wealth was all your 
own ; 

And benefits were weighed in Reason's 
scales 1 

XXII. 
DECAY OF PIETY. 

Oft have I seen, ere Time had ploughed 

my cheek, 
Matrons and Sires— who, punctual to the 

call 



MISCELLANEOUS SO \ NETS. 



23J 



Of their loved Church, on fast or festival 
Through the long year the House of 

Prayer would seek : 
By Christmas snows, by visitation bleak 
Of Easter winds, unscared, from hut or hall 
They came to lowly bench or sculptured 

stall, 
But with one fervor of devotion meek. 
1 see the places where they once were 

known, 
And ask, surrounded even by kneeling 

crowds, 
Is ancient Piety forever flown ? 
Alas 1 even then they seemed like fleecy 

clouds 
That, struggling through the western sky, 

have won 
Their pensive light from a departed sun ! 

XXIII. 

COMPOSED ON THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE 
OF A FRIEND IN THE VALE OF GRAS- 
MERE, 1S12. 

What need of clamorous bells or ribbons 

These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace ? 
Angels of love, look down upon the pi; cc ; 
Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day ! 
Yet no proud gladness would the Bride 

display 
Even for such promise • — serious is her face, 
Modest her mien j and she whose thoughts 

keep pace 
With gentleness, in that becoming way 
Will thank you. Faultless does the Maid 

appear ; 
No disproportion in her soul, no strife ; 
But, when the closer view of wedded life 
Hath shown tliat nothing human can be 

clear 
From frailty, for that insight may the Wife 
To her indulgent Lord become more dear. 



FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO. 
I. 

i'ES ! hope niay with my strong desire Keep 

pace, 
And I be undeluded, unbetraycd; 
For if of our affections none finds grace 
In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath 

God made 
The world which we inhabit ? Better plea 
Love cannot have, than that in loving thee 
Glory to that eternal Feace is paid, 



Who such divinity to thee imparts 

As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. 

His hope is treacherous only whose love 

dies 
With beauty, which is varying every hour; 
But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the 

power 
Of outward change, there blooms a deathless 

flower, 
That breathes on earth the air of paradise. 

XXV. 

FROM THE SAME. 



No mortal object did these eyes behold 
When first they met the placid light o\ 

thine, 
And my Soul felt her destiny divine, 
And hope of endless peace in me grew bold: 
Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course 

must hold ; 
Beyond the visible world she soars to seek 
(For what delights the sense is false and 

weak) 
Ideal Form, the universal mould. 
The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest 
In that which perishes ; nor will he lend 
His heart to aught which doth on timo 

depend. 
'TJs sense, unbridled will, and not true love, 
That kills the soul : love betters what is 

best, 
Even here below, but more in heaven above.) 



FROM THE SAME. TO THE SUPREME 
BEING. 



The prayers I make will then be sweet 

indeed 
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray : 
My unassisted heart is barren clay, 
That of its native self can nothmg feed : 
Of good and pious works thou art the seed, 
That quickens only where thou say'st it 

may ■ 
Unless Tliou show to us thine own true 

way 
No man can find it ; Father ! Thou must 

lead 
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into 

my mind 
By which such virtue may in me be bred 
That in thy holy footsteps I may tread ; 



S luj) 



^32 



Af ISC ELLA iVEO C/S SO AWE TS. 



The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind, 
That I m;iy have the power to sing of thee, 
And sound thy praises everlastingly. ,' 

XXVII. 

Surprise!) by joy— impaticnt_as the \Vind 
,^ I turrielTto sliare the transport — Oh 1 with 
. ^ whom 

But Thee, deep buried in tlie silent tomb, 
, That spot which no vicissitude can find? 
/^ Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my 
mind — 
Dut how could I forget thee ? Through 

what power. 
Even for the least division of an hour. 
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind 
To my moht grievous loss ?— That thought's 

return 
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever l3ore, 
J"^ave one, one only, when 1 stood forlorn, 
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no 

more ; 
That neither present time, nor years un- 
born 
Could to my sight that heavenly face re- 
store. 

XXVIII. 

I. 

Methought I saw the footbtcps of a 

throne 
Which mists and vapors from mine eyes did 

shroud — 
Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed ; 
But all the steps and ground about were 

strown [bone 

With sights the ruefullcst that flesh and 
Ever put on ; a miserable crowd, 
Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that 

cloud, 
" Thou art our king, O Death ! to thee we 

groan." 
Those steps I clomb ; the mists before me 

gave 
Smooth way : and I beheld the face of one 
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave, 
With her face up to heaven ; that seemed to 

have 
Pleasing remembrance of a thouglit fore- 
gone ; 
A lovely Beauty in a summer grave I 

XXIX. 

NOVEMBER, 1 836. 

II. 

Even so for me a Vision sanctified 
The sway of Death ; long ere mine eyes had 
<een 



Tiiy countenance — the still rapture of thf 

mien — 
Wlien thou, dear Sister ! wert become 

Death's Bride ; 
'Nojrace of pain or languor could abide 
^riiat change : — age on thy brow was 

smoothed — thy cold 
Wan clicek at once was privileged to unfolcJ 
A loveliness to living youth denied. 
Oh ! if within me hope should e'er decline, 
The lamp of faith, lost Friend 1 too faintly 

burn; [tiiine, 

Then may that heaven-revealing smile of 
The bright assurance, visibly return ; 
And let my spirit in tliat power divine 
Rejoice, as, through that power, it ceased t» 

mourn. 

XXX. 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 
The holy time is quiet as a Nun 
Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 
Is sinkmg down in it^ tranquillity; 
The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the 

Sea: 
Listen ! tlie mighty Being is awake, 
And doth with liis eternal motion make 
A sound like thunder — everlastinglv. 
DearCiiild! dear Girl! that walkest with 

me here, 
If thou appear untouched by solemn 
thought, 

i Thy nature is not tlierefore less divine : 

j Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the 

I year ; 

I And worship'st at the Temple's inner 

j shrine, 

God being with thee when we know it not. 

XXXI. 

Where lies the Land to wliich yon Ship 

must go? 
Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day. 
Festively she puts forth in trim array ; 
Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow ? 
What boots the inquiry? — Ncitlicr friend 

nor foe 
She cares for ; let her travel where she may 
She finds familiar names, a beaten way 
Ever before her. and a wind to blow. 
Vet still I ask, what haven is her mark ? 
And, almost as it was when ships were rare, 
(From time to time, like Pilgrims^ here and 

there 
Crossing the waters) doubt, and something 

dark. 
Of thvj old .'^ea some reverential fear, 
1 Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark I 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 



•^z^ 



XXXII. 

With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and 

nigh, 
Like stars in heaven, and joyously it 

showed : 
Some lying fast at anchor in the road, 
Some veering up and down, one knew not 

why, 
A goodly Vessel did I then espy 
Come like a giant from a haven broad ; 
And lustily along the bay she slrt)de, 
Her tackling rich, and of apparel higli. 
This Ship was naught to me, nor I to her, 
Yet I pt rsued her with a Lover's look ; 
This Ship to all the rest did 1 prefer : 
When will she turn, and whither ? She will 

brook 
No tarrying : where She comes the winds 

must stir: 
On went She, and due nortli her journey 

took. 

XXXIII. 

/"The world is too much with us: late and 
I soon, 

Getting and spending, we lay waste our 

powers : 
Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid 

boon ! 
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 
The winds that will be howling at all liours, 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping 

flowers ; 
For this, for everything, we are out of 

tune ; 
' It moves us not.— Great God! I'd rather be 
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn : 
So might I, standing on this pleasant len, 
Have glinipses that would make mj less 

forlorn ; \ 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed iiorn. 

XXXIV. 

A VOLANT Tribe of Bards on earth are 

found. 
Who. while the flattering Zephyrs round 

them play, 
On " coignes of vantage " hang their nests 

of clay : 
How quickly from that aery hold unbound. 
Dust for oblivion ! To the solid ground 
Of nature trusts the Mind thatbuilds for 

aye 
Convinced that there, there only, she can 

lay 



As the year runs 



Secure foundations. 

round, 

Apart she toils within the chosen ring ; 
While the stars shine, or while day's purple 

eye 
Is gently closing with the flowers of spring ; 
\Vhere even the motion of an Angel's wing 
Would interrupt the intense tranquillity 
Ul silent hills, and more than silent sky. 

XXXV. 

" Weak is the will of Man, his judgment 

blind; 
Remembrance persecutes, and Hope be 

trays ; 
Heavy is woe ;— and jov, for human-kind, 
A mmirnful thing, so transient is the blaze ! '^ 
'J'luis might he paint our lot of mortal days 
Wiio wants the glorious faculty assigned 
To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind, 
And color life's dark cloud with orient rays 
Imagination is that sacred power, 
Imagination lofty and refined : 
■ Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower 
Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples 

bind 
Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest 

shower. 
And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest 

wind. 

xxxvi. 

TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEV CALVERT. 

Calvert! it must not be unheard bv them 
Who may respect my name, that I to thee 
Owed many years of early liberty. 
This care was thine when sickness did con- 
demn 
'J'hy youth to hopeless wasting, root and 

stem — 
That I, if frugal and severe, might stray 
Where'er I liked ; and finally array 
My temples with the Muse's diadem. 
Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth ; 
If there be aught of pure, or good, or great 
In my past verse ; or shall be, in the lays 
Of higher mood which now I meditate ; — 
It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived, 

Youth! 
To think how much of this will be thy 
praise. 

PART n. 



Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you hav« 

frowned, 
Mindless of its just honors ; with this key 



i«34 



M ISC EL T. A .VLOUS SOA^jVE TS. 



Shakspeare unlocked his heart ; the melody 
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's 

wound ; 
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso 

sOLind ; 
With it Canioens soothed an exile's grief : 
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf 
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned 
His visionary brow : a glow-worm lamp, 
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery- 
land 
To struggle through dark ways : and. when 

a damp 
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 
The Thing became a trumpet ; whence he 

blew 
Soul-animating strains — alas, too few ! 



[Tow sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks 
The wayward brain, to saunter through a 

wood ! 
An old place, full of many a lovely brood, 
Tall trees, green arbors, and ground-flowers 

in flocks ; 
And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks, 
Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile ]iranks 
At Wakes and Fairs with wandering 

Mountebanks, — 
When she stands cresting the Clown's head, 

and mocks 
The crowd beneath her. V^ril^ I think, 
Such place to me is sOiT)_*times like a 

dream 
Or map of the whole worid : thoughts, link 

by link, 
Enter through ears and eyesight, with such 

gleam 
Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink. 
And leap at once from the delicious stream. 



TO B. R. HAYDON. 

High is our calling. Friend [^Creative Art 
,' Whether the instrument of words she use, 
Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues), 
Demands the service of a mind and h.eart. 
Though sensitive yet, in their weakest part, 

Heroically fashioned to infuse 

Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse, 
While the whole world seems adverse to 

desert. 
And, oh ! when Nature sinks, as oft she 

may, 
Through long-lived pressure of obscure dis- 

Uess, 



Still to be strenuous for the bright reward, 
And in the soul ^drnit of no decay, " ' 
Brook no continuance ot weak-minded 

ness — 
Great is the glory, for the strife is hara ! 



From the dark chambers of dejectiof 

freed, 
Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care. 
Rise, Gillies, rise : the gales of youth shall 

Ijear 
Thy genius forward like a winged steed. 
Thou/i,h bold Bellerophon (so Jove decreed 
In wrath) fdl headlong from the fields ol 

air, 
Yet a rich guerdon waits on minds tiiat 

dare. 
If anglit be in them of immortal seed, 
/vjirl reason govern that audacious flight 
Which heaven-ward they direct,— Then 

droop not thou, 
Erroneously renewing a sad vow 
In the low dell mid Koslin's faded grove •■ 
A cheerful life is what the Muses love, 
A soaring spirit is their prime dehght. 



Fair Prime of life ! were it enough to gild 
With ready sunbeams every straggjing 

showrr; 
And, if an unexpected cloud slioiild lower, 
Swiftly thereon a rainbow arch to build 
For Fancy's errands, — then, from fields half- 
tilled 
Gathering green weeds to mix witli poppy 

flower. 
Thee might thy Minions crown, and chant 

thy power, 
Unnitieci by the wise, all censure stilled. 
Ah! show that worthier lionors are thy 

due ; 
I''air Prime of life ! arouse th.e deeper heart; 
Confirm the Spirit glorying to pursue 
Some path of steep ascent and lofty aim ; 
And, if there be a joy that slights the claiok 
Of grateful memoiy, bid that joy depart. 

VI. 

I WATCH, and long have watched, with calm 

regret 
Yon slowly-sinking star — immortal Sire 
(So might he seem) of all the glittering 

quire ! 
Blue ether still surrounds him — yet— and 

yet ; 



MISCELLAN-EOUS SONNETS. 



^35 



But nowjhe horizon's rocky parapet 
Is reachecIT^vITere, fbfleltilTs; his bright at- 
tire, 
He burns — transmuted to a dusky fire — 
Then pays subinisslvely the appointed debt 
J\) the flyin;^ moments, and is seen no mora 
.\ngels and sods ! We struggle with our 

" fate. 
Whilo Ihj.ilth, power, glory, fr. m their height 

dcchne, 
Depressed : and then extinguished : and our 

state, 
In tliis, how different, lost Star, from thine. 
That no to-morrow shall our beams restore ; 

VII. 

I HEARD (alas ! 'twas only in a dream) 
Strams — winch, as sage Antiquity believed, 
•By waking ears liave sometimes been re- 
ceived 
Wafted adown the wind from lake or stream ; 
A most melodious requiem, a supreme 
And perfect harmony of notes, acluev d 
By a fair Swan on diowsy billows heaved, 
O'er which her pinions shed a silver gleam 
For is she not the votary of Apollo.'' 
And knows she not, singing as he inspires, 
That bliss awaits her which the ungeni;i] 

Hollow * 
Of the dull earth partakes not, nor desires ? 
Mount, tuneful Bird, and join the immortal 

quires ' 
She soared — and I awoke, struggling in vain 
to follow. 



RETIREMENT. 

If the whole weight of what we think and 

feel. 
Save only far as thouglit and feeling blend 
With action, were as nothing, patriot Friend ! 
From thy remonstrance would be no appeal ; 
But to promote and fortify the weal 
Of our own Being is her paramount end ; 
A truth which they alone shall comprehend 
Who shun the mischief which they cannot 

heal. [bliss ; 

peace in these feverish times Is sovereign 
Here, with no thirst but what the stream 

can slake. 
And startled only by the rustling brake. 
Cool air I breathe ; while the unincumbered 

Mind 
By some weak aims at services assigned 
To gentle Natures, thanks not Heaven amiss. 

* See the Phaedon of Plato, by which this 
Souvict was suggested. 



ir. 

Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous 

swell 
Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change. 
Nor Duty struggling with afflictions strange- 
Not these alnne inspire the tuneful shell ; 
But where untroubled peace and concord 

dwell. 
There also is the Muse not loth to range, 
Watching the twilight .smoke of cot oi 

grange. 
Skyward ascending from a woody dell. 
Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavor 
And sage content, and placid melancholy ; 
She loves to gaze upon a crystal river — 
Diaphanous because ft travels slowly ; 
Soft is the music that would charm forever ; 
The flower of sweetest smell is shy and 

lowly 

X. 
Mark the concentred hazels that enclose 
Yon old gray Stone, protected from the ray 
Of noontide suns — and even the beams that 

play 
And glance, while wantonly the rough wind 

blows. 
Are seldom free to touch the moss that 

grows 
Upon that roof, amid embowering gloom, 
The very image framing of a Tomb, 
In which some ancient Chieftain finds repose 
Among the lonely mountains. — Live, ye 

trees ! 
And thou, gray Stone, the pensive likeness 

keep 
Of a dark chamber where the Mighty sleeji : 
For more than Fancy to the influence bends 
When solitary Nature condescends 
To mimic Time's forlorn humanities. 

XI. 

COMPOSED AFTER A JOURNEY ACROSS 
THE HAMBLETON HILLS, YORKSHIRE. 

Dark and more dark the shades of evening 

fell; 
The wished-for point was reached — but at 

an hour 
When little could be gained from that rich 

dower 
Of prospect, whereof many thousands tell. 
Yet did the gl<. wing west with marvellous 

power 
Salute us ; there stood Indian citadel. 
Temple of Greece, and minster witb itu 

tower 



^3^ 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 



Substantiafly expressed— a pb.ce for bell 
Or clock to (oU from ! Many a tempting isle, 
With groves that never were imagined, lay 
'Mid seas how steadfast ! objects all for the 

eve 
Of silent rapture; but we felt the while 
We should forget them ; they are of the sky, 
And from our earthly memory fade away 



" they are of the sky. 

And from our earthlv memory fade away ! " 

Those words were Jittered as in pensive 

mood 
We turned, departiag from that solemn 

sight ; 
A contrast and reproach to gross delight, 
And life's unspiritual pleasures daily wooed ! 
But now upon this thought I cannot brood : 
It IS unstable as a dream of night ; 
>ior will 1 praise a cloud, however bright, 
Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food. 
Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built 

dome, 
Though clad in colors beautiful and pure. 
Find in the heart of man no natural home : 
The immortal Mind craves objects that 

endure : 
These cleave to it ; from these it cannot 

roam. 
Nor they from it : their fellowship is secure. 



SEPTEMBER, 1S15. 

While not a leaf seems faded ; while the 

fields, 
With ripening harvest prodigally fair, 
In brightest sunshine bask ; this nipping air, 
Sent irom some distant clime where Winter 

wields 
His icy cimeter, a foretaste yields 
Of bitter change, and bids the flowers be- 
ware : 
And whispers to the silent birds, " Prepare 
Against the threatening foe your trustiest 

shields." 
For me, who under kindlier laws belong 
To Nature's tuneful ([uire, this rustling dry 
Through leaves yet green, and yon crystal- 
line sky, 
Announce a season potent to renew 
Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of 

song. 
And nobler cares than listless summer knew. 



NOVEMHER I. 

How clear, how keen, how marvellously 

bright 
The effluence from yon distant mountain's 

head, 
Which, strown with ^now smooth as the sky 

can shed. 
Shines like another sun — on mortal sight 
Uprisen, as if to check approaching Night, 
And all her twinkling stars Who now 

would tread, 
If so he might, yon mountain's glittering 

head— 
Terrestrial, but a surface, by the flight 
Of sad mortality's earth-iullying wing, 
Un!-wept. unstained.'' Nor shall the aerial 

Powers 
Dissolve that beauty, destined to endure, 
White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure, 
Through all vicissitudes, till genial Spring 
Has filled the laughing vales with welcome 

flowers. 

XV. 
COMPOSED DURING A STORM, 

One who was suffering tumult in his soul, 
Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer, 
Went forth — his course surrendering to the 

care 
Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings 

prowl 
Insiduously, untimely thunders growl ; 
While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers, 

tear 
The lingering.j:£.mjriant of their vellowjiair, 
And shivering wolves, surprised with dark- 
ness, howl 
As i*^ the sun were not. He raised his eye 
Soul-smitten ; for, that instant, did appear 
Large space (mid dreadful clouds) of purest 

sky. 
An azure disc — shield of Tranquillity; 
Invisible, unlooked-for, minister 
Of providential goodness ever nigh 1 

XVI. 
TO A SNOW-DROP. 

LoNE Flower, hemmed in with snows and 

white as they 
But hardier far, onee more I see thee bend 
Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend, 
Like an unbidden guest. Though day by 

day. 
Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops 

waylay 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 



237 



The risin- sun, and on the plains descend • 
Yet art tiiou welcome, welcome as a friend 
Whose zeal outruns his promise ! i31uc-eyed 

May , . , , 

Shall soon behold this border thickly set 
With bright jonquils, their odors lavishing 
On tlic soft west-wind and his frolic peers ; 
Nor will I then tliy modest grace forget, 
Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger ot 

Spring, 
And pensive monitor of fleeting years! 

XVII. 
TO THE LADY MARY LOWTHER. 
With a selection from the Poems of Anno, 
Countess of VViiichilse:\ ; and extracts cf r. ii 1- 
\\x character from other Writers ; transcnujd 
by a female friend. 
L\DY ! I rifled a Parnassian Cave 
{ But seldom trod) of mildly-glcaming ore • 
And culled, from sundry beds, a -acid store 
Of genuine crystals, pure as those that pave 
The azure brooks where I3ian joys to lave 
Her spotless limbs ; and ventured to explore 
Dim shades— for reliques, upon Lethe's 

shore, 
Cast up at random by the sullen wave. 
To female hands the treasures were resigned ; 
And lo this Work !— a grotto bright and 

clear 
From stain or taint ; in which thy blameless 

mind 
May feed on thoughts though pensive not 

austere ; 
Or, if thy deeper spirit be inclined 
To holy musing, it may enter here. 

XVIII. 
TO LADY r.EAUMONT. 



Lady 1 the songs of Spring were in the 

grove . - 

While I was shaping beds for winter flowers ; 
While I was planting green unfading bowers, 
And shrubs-to hang upon the warm alcove, 
/\nd sheltering wall ; and still, as Fancy 
wove , , , J , 

The dream, to time and nature's blended 

powers 
I gave tills paradise for winter hours, 
A labyrinth. Lady! which your feet shall 

rove. , , , i- 

Veil when the sun-of life more feebly shines. 
Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom 
Or of high gladness you shall hither brmg ; 



And thfi.s£Lpcrennial bowers and murmuring 

'" pines , , , , 

Be_xiacrous as the music and the bloom 
And all the mighty ravishment of spring. 

XIX. 

There is a pleasure in poetic pants 
Which only Poets know ;— 'twas rightly said 
Whom could the Muses else allure to tread 
Their smoothest paths, to wear their light 

chains ? • 1 1 

When happiest Fancy has mspired the 
stftins, 

I How oft the malice of one luckless word 
Pursues the Enthusiast to the social board, 

! Haunts him belated on the silent plains! 
Yet he repines not,if his thought stand clear, 

! At last, of hindrance and obscurity, 
Fresh as the star that crowns the brow of 

Bright, speckless, as a softly-moulded tear 
The moment it has left the virgin's eye, 
Or rain drop lingering on the pointed thorn. 

XX. 

The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly 

said, , 

« Bright is thy veil, O Moon, as thou art 
bright!' , . ,. A 

Forthwith, that little cloud, in ether spread 
And penetrated all with tender light, 
She cast a way, and showed her fulgent head 
Uncovered ; dazzling the Beholder's sight 
; A^ if to vindicate her beauty's right 
H-r beauty thoughtlessly disparaged. 
Meanwhile that veil, removed or thrown 

aside, , , • -^ ^ 

Went floating from her, darkening as it went ; 
And a liuge mass, to bury or to hide, 
Approached this glory of the firmament , 
Who meekly yields, and is obscured-con- 

tent , . , 

With one calm triimiph of a modest pride. 



When haughty expectations prostrate he, 
1 .\nd ",-andeur crouches like a guilty thing, 

Oft shall the lowly weak, till nature bring 
1 Mature release, in fair society 
1 Survive, and Fortune's utmost anger try ; 
! Like these frail snow-drops that together 
cling, . , ^. • „ 

And nod their helmets, smitten by the wmg 

Of many a furious whirl-blast sweeping by. 

Observe the faithful flowers ! if small to 
great 



238 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 



May lead the thoughts, thus struggling used 
to stand 

The Emathian phalanx, nobly obsthiate ; 

And so the bright immortal Theban band, 

Whom onset, fiercely urged at Jove's com- 
mand 

Might overwhelm, but could not separate 1 

XXII. 

Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful 

hour ! 
Not dull art Thou as undiscerning Night ; 
But studious only to remove from slight 
Day's mutable distinctions. — Ancient 

Power ! 
Thus did the waters gleam, t!ie mountains 

lower, 
To the rude Briton, when, in wolf skin vest 
Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest 
On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower 
Looked ere his eyes were closed. By him 

was seen 
The self-same Vision which we now behold. 
At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power! 

brought forth ; 
These mighty barriers, and the gulf be- 
tween : 
The flood, the stars, — a spectacle as old 
As the beginning of the heavens and earth ! 

XXIII. 

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st 

the sky, 
" How silentlv, and with how wan a face ! " 
Where art thou? Thou so often seen on 

high 
Running among the clouds a wood-nymph's 

race ! 
Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a 

sigh 
Which they would stifle, move a't such a 

pace ! 
The northern Wind, to call thee to the 

chase, 
Must blow to-night his bugle horn. Had I 
The'power of Merlin, Goddess! this should 

be: 
And all the stars, fast as the clouds were 

riven, 
Should sally forth, to keep thee company, 
Hurrying and sparkling through the clear 

blue heaven ; 
But, Cynthia ! should to tliee the palm be 

given, 
Queen both for beauty and for majesty. 



Even as a dragon's eye that feels the stress 
Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp 
Suddenly glaring through sepulchral damp, 
So burns yon Taper 'mid a black recess 
Of mountains, silent, dreary, motionless : 
The lake below reflects it not ; the sky, 
Muffled in clouds, affords no company 
To mitigate and cheer its loneliness. 
Yet, round the body of that joyless Thing 
Which sends so far its melancholy light. 
Perhaps are seated in domestic ring 
A gay society with faces bright. 
Conversing, reading, laughing; — or they 

sing. 
While hearts and voices in the song unite. 

XXV. 

The stars are mansions built by Nature's 
hand. 

And, haply, there the spirits of the blest 

Dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal 
vest ; 

Huge Ocean shows, within his yellow 
strand, 

A habitation marvellously planned. 

For life to occupy in love and rest ; 

All that we see — is dome, or vault, or nest, 

Or fortress, reared at Nature's sage com- 
mand. 

Glad thought for every season ! but the 
Spring 

Gave it while cares were weighing on my 
heart, 

'Mid songs of birds, and insects murmur- 
ing ; 

And while the youthful year's prolific art — 

Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower — was fash- 
ioning 

Abodes where self-disturbance hath no part. 

XXVI. 

Desponding Father! mark this altered 

bough. 
So beautiful of late, with sunshine warmed, 
Or moist with dews ; what more unsightly 

now, 
Its blossoms shrivelled, and its fruit, if 

formed. 
Invisible ? yet Spring her genial brow 
Knits not o'er that discoloring and decay 
As false to expectation. Nor fret thou 
At like unlovely process in the May 
Of human life . a StripHng's graces blow, 
Fade and are shed, that from their timelj 

fall 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNE TS. 



239 



Misdeem it not a cankerous cliange) may 

grow 
Rich mellow bearings, that for thanks sliali 

call : 
In all men, sinful is it to be slow 
To hope — in Parents, sinful above all. 



CAPTIVITY,— MARY OUEEN OF SCOTS. 

• As tlie cold aspect of a sunless way 
btrikes through the Traveller's frame v/ith 

deadlier chill, 
Oft as appears a grove, or obvious hill, 
tilistcning with unparticipatcd ray, 
Oi shining slope where he must never 

stray ; 
So ;oys, remembered without wish or will, 
Sii.irpen the keenest edge of present ill, — 
On the crushed heart a heavier burthen lay. 
Just Heaven, contract the compass of my 

mind 
To fit proportion with my altered state ! 
Quench those felicities whose light I find 
Reflected in my bosom all too late ! — 
O be my spirit, like my thraldom, strait 
And, like mine eyes that stream with sor 

row, blind 1 '' 



XXVIII. 
ST CATHERINE OF LEDEURY. 

When human touch (as monkish books 

attest) 
Nor was applied nor could be, Ledbury 

bells 
Broke forth in concert flung adown th.e 

dells, 
And upward, high as Malvern's cloudy 

crest ; 
Sweet tones, and caught by a noble Lady 

blest 
To rapture ! Mabel listened at the side 
Of her loved mistress : soon the music died. 
And Catherine said, i)crc ^i 6Ct up mi) rest. 
Warned in a dream, the Wanderer long had 

sought 
A home that by such miracle of sound 
Must be revealed : — she heard it now, or 

felt 
The deep, deep joy of a confiding thought ; 
And there, a saintly Anchoress, she dwelt 
Till she exchanged for heaven that happy 

round. 



" Gives to airy nothinsj 

A local habitation and a name." 

Though narrow be tint old Man's cares, 

and near. 
The poor old Man is greater than he 

seems ; 
For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams r 
An ample sovereignty of eye and ear. 
Rich are his walks with sup. rnatural cheer; 
The region of his inner spirit teems 
With vital sounds and monitory gleams 
Of high astonishment and pleasing fear. 
He the seven birds hath seen, that never 

part. 
Seen the Seven Whistlers in their 

nightly rounds, 
And counted them : and oftentimes will 

start— 
For overheid are sweeping Gabriel's 

Hounds 
Doomed, with their impious Lord, the fly- 
ing Hart 
To chase forever, on aerial grounds ! 

XXX. 

Four fiery steeds, impatient of the rein 
Whirled us o'er si nless ground beneath a 

sky 
As void of sunshine, when, from that wide 

plain. 
Clear tops of far-off mountains we descry. 
Like a Sierra of Cerulean Spain, 
All light and lustre. Did no heart reply? 
Yes, there was One , — for One, asunder flj 
The thousand links of that ethereal chain ; 
.\nd green vales open out, with grove and 

field, 
And the fair front of many a happy Home: 
Such tempting spots as into vision come 
While Soldiers, weary of the arms they 

wield 
And sick at heart of strifeful Chnstend( m, 
Gaze on the moon by parting clouds ro- 

vealcd. 



Brook ! whose society the Poet seeks, 
Intent his wasted spirits to renew ; 
And whom the curious Painter doth pursue 
Through rocky passes, among firwery 

creeks^ 
r\v\(\ tracks thee dancing down thy watef 

breaks ; 



240 



MTSCELLAtVEOUS SONNETS. 



Il wish were mine some type of ilice to 

view, 
Thee, and not tlice thyself, 1 would not do 
Like Grecian Artists, give thee human 

cheeks, 
Channels for tears ; no Naiad shouidst thou 

be,— 
Have ncitlier limbs, feet, feathers, joints 

nor hairs : 
It seems the Eternal Soul is clothed in thee 
With purer robes than those of fiesh and 

blood, 
And hath bestowed on thee a safer good ; 
Unwearied joy, and life without its cares. 



COMPOSED ON THE FANKS OF A ROCKY 
STREAM. 

I)or.M.\Tic Teachers, of the snow-white 

fur ! 
Ve wrangling Sclioolnicn, of the scarlet 

hood! 
Who, with a keenness not to be withstood. 
Press the point home, or falter and demur. 
Checked m your C( ursc by many a teasing 

burr ; 
These natural council-seats your acrid blood 
Might cool :~and, as the Genius of tlie 

■ flood 
Stoops willingly to animate and spur 
Each lighter function slumbering in tlic 

brain, 
Yon eddying balls of foam, these arrowy 

gleams 
That o'er the pavement of the surging 

streams 
Welter and flash, a synod might detain 
With subtle speculations, haply vain, 
But surely less so than your far-fetched 

themes 1 

XXIII. 

THI.S, AND THE TWO FOLLOWING, WERE 
SUGGESTED BY MR. W. WE.STALL'S 
VIEWS OF THE CAVES, ETC., IN YORK- 
SHIRE. 

Pure element of waters ! wheresoe'er 
'I'liou dost forsake thy subterranean haunts. 
Green herbs, bright flowers, and berry- 
bearing plants. 
Rise into life and in thy train appear : 
And, through the sunny portion of the 

year. 
Swift insects shine, thy hovering pursui- 
vants : 



^nd, if thy bounty fail, the forest pants ; 
And hart and Innd and hunter with \\\% 

spear. 
Languish and droop together. Nor unfclt 
in man's perturbed soul thy sway benign ; 
And, haply, far within the marble belt 
Of central earth, where tortured Spirits 

pine 
For grace and goodness lost, thy nuirmurs 

melt 
Their anguish,— and they blend sweet songs 

with thine.* 

XXXIV. 

MALHAM COVE. 

Was the aim irustrated by force or guile. 
When giants scooped from out the locky 

ground. 
Tier under tier, this scmicirque profound.'' 
(Giants — the same who built in Erin's isle 
That Causeway with mcomparable toil) ! 
O, had this vast theatric structure wound 
With finished sweep into a perfect round, 
No mightier work had gumed the plausive 

smile 
Of all-beholding Phoebus ! But, alas. 
Vain earth ! false world ! Foundations 

must be laid 
In Heaven ; for, 'mid the wreck of is and 

WAS, 

Tilings incomplete and purposes betrayed 
Make sadder transits o'er thought's optic 

glass 
Than noblest objects uttaly decayed. 



GORDALE. 

At early dawn, or rather when the air 
Ghnimers with fading light, and shadowy 

Eve 
Is busiest to confer and to bereave; 
Then, pensive Votary ! let thy feet repair 
To Gordale-chasm, terrific as the lair 
Where the young lions couch ; for so, by 

leave 
Of the propitious hour, thou may'st per- 
ceive 
The local Deity, with oozy hair 
And mineral crown, beside his jagged urn, 



* Waters (ns Mr. Westall informs us m the 
letter-press prefixed to his admirable views) 
are invariably found to flow through these 
caverns. 



MrSCRLLAlVEOl/S SONNETS. 



24k 



Recumbent : Him thou may'st behold, who 

hides 
His lineaments by day, yet there presides, 
Teaching the docile waters huvv to turn, 
Or (if need be) impediment to spurn, 
And force their passage to tlie salt-sea 

tides ! 



COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, 
SEPTEMBER :^, l8o2. 

Earth has not anything to show more 

fair ; 
Dull would he be of son! who cnuld pass by 
A sight so touchint^ in its majesty ; 
This City now doth, like a garment, wear 
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, 
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples 

lie 
Open unto the fields, and to the sky ; 
All bright and glittering in the smokeless 

air. 
Never did sun more beautifully steep 
In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hil] ; 
Ne'er saw 1, never felt, a calm so deep! 
The river glideth at his own sweet will ; 
Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
And all that mighty heart is lying still I 



CONCLUSION. 



If these brief Records, by the Muses' art 
Produced as lonely Nature or tlie strife 
That animates the scenes of public lile * 
Inspired, may in their leisure claim a part ; 
And if these Transcripts of the private 

heart 
Have gained a sanction from thy falling 

tears ; 
Then 1 repent not. But my soul hath 

fears 
Breathed from eternity , for as a dart 
Cleaves the blank air. Life flies , now every 

day 
Is but a glimmering spcke in the swift 

wheel 
Of the revolving week. Away, away, 
AH fitful cares, all transitory zeal ! 
So timely Grace the immortal wing may 

heal, 
And honor rest upon the senseless clay. 

• This line alludes to Sonnets which will be 
found in another Class. 



PART III. 



Though the bold wings of Poesy affect 
The clouds, and wheel around the rnoun 

t.un tops 
Rejoicing, from her loftiest height she^ 

drops 
Well pleased to sk'.m the plain with wild 

flowers cleckt. 
Or muse in solemn grove whose shades pro- 
tect 
The lingering dew— there steals along, or 

stops 
Watcliing the least small bird that round 

liei hops. 
Or creeping worm, with sensitive respect. 
Fler functions are they therefore less divine, 
Her thoughts less deep, or void of grave 

intent 
Her simplest fancies? Should that fear be 

thine, 
Aspiring Votary, ere thy hand present 
One offering, knjel before her modest 

shrine, 
With brow in penitential sorrow bent f 

II. 

OXFORD, MAY 30, 1820. 

Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth ! 

In whose collegiate shelter^ Enghu.d's 
Flowers 

E.xpand, enjoying through their vernal 
hours 

Thi air of liberty, the light of truth ; 

Much have ye suffered from Time's gnav;- 
ing tooth : 

Yet, 6 ye spires of Oxford ! domes and 
towers ! 

Gardens and groves I your presence over- 
powers 

The soberness of reason ; tili, in sooth. 

Transformed, and rushing on a bold ex- 
change, 

[ slight my own beloved Cam, to range 

Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet • 

Pace the long avenue, or glide adown 

The stream-like windings of that glorious 
street — 

An eager Novice robed in fluttering gown.' 
III. 

OXFORD, MAY 30, 1820. 

Shame on this faithless heart ! that could 

allow 
Such transport, though but for a moment'a 

space : 



242 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 



Not while — to aid the spirit of the place — 
The crescent moon clove with its glittering 

prow 
Tht clouds, or night-bird sang from shady 

bough ; 
But in pl;un daylight :— She, too, at my 

side, 
Who, with her heart's experience satisfied, 
Maintams mviolate its slightest vow ! 
Sweet Fancy ! other gifts must I receive ; 
Proofs of a higher sovereignty J clami , 
Take from her brow the withering flowers 

of eve, 
And to that brow life's morning wreath re- 

s*^ore , 
Let her be comprehended in the frame 
Of these illusions, or tliey please no more, 

IV 

RECOLLECTION OF IHF PORTRAIT OF 
KING HENRY EIGHTH, TKIMTY LODGE, 
CAMBRIDGE. 

The imperial Stature, the colossal stride. 

Are vet before* me, yet do 1 behold 

The broad full visage, chest of amplest 

mould. 
The vestments br, 'idered with barbaric 

pride 
And lo I a poniard, at *hc Monarch's side, 
Hangs ready to be grasped in sympathy 
Witli the keen threatenings of that fu1g,:nt 

eye, 
fielow the white-rimmed bonnet, far- 
descried. 
W'tio trembles now at thy capricious mood ? 
'Mid those surrounding Worthies, haughty 

King, 
Wc rather think, with grateful mind sedate, 
How I'rovidciice educeth, from the spring 
Of lawless will, unlooked-for streams of 

good, 
Which neither force shall check nor time 

abate. 

V. 

ON THE DEATH OF HIS MAJESTY (GEORGE 
THE THIRD). 

Ward of the Law! — dread Shadow of a 

King 
Whose realm had dwindled to one stately 

room, 
Whose universe was gloom immersed in 

gloom. 
Darkness as thick as life o'er life could 

lling, 



Save haply for some feeble glimmering 

Of Faith and Hope — if thou, by nature's 
doom 

Gently hast sunk into the quiet tomb, 

Why should we bend in grief, to sorrow 
cling, 

When thankfulness were best.'' — Fresh- 
flowing tears, 

Or, where tears flow not, sigh succeeding 
sicrh, 

Yield to such after-thought the sole reply 

Which justly it can claim. The Nation 
hears 

In this deep knell, silent for threescore 
years, 

An unexampled voice of awful memory 1 

VI 

JUNE, 1820. 

Fame tells of groves — from F.ngland far 

away — 
* Groves that inspire the Nightingale to 

trill 
And modulate, with subtle reach of skill 
Elsewhere unmatched, her ever-varying 

lay ; 
Such bold report 1 venture to gainsay • 
For I have heard the quire of Kiclurund 

hill 
Chanting, with indefatigable bill, 
Strains that recalled to mind a distant dav ; 
When, liaply under shade of tliat same 

wood, 
AikI scarcely conscious of the dashing oars 
Plied steadily between those willowy shores, 
The sweet-souled Poet of the Seasons 

stood — 
Listening, and listening long, in rapturous 

mood, 
Ye heavenly Bads ! to yiair progenitors. 

VII. 
a parsonage IN OXFORDSHIRE. 

Where holy ground begins, unhallowed 

ends, 
Is marked by no distinguishable line ; 
The turf unites, the pathways intertwine ; 
And, wheresoc'er the stealing footstep 

tends, 
Garden, and that Domain where kindred, 

friends, 
And neighbors rest together, here confound 
Tlieir several features, mingled like th« 

sound 



Waliachia is the country alluded to* 



M ISC ELL A iVEOUS SONNE TS. 



243 



Of many waters, or as evening blends 
With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub 

and flower, 
Waft fragrant greetings io each silent 

grave ; 
And while those lofty poplars gently wave 
Their tops, between them comes and goes a 

sky 
Bright as the glimpses of eternity. 
To saints accorded in their mortal hour. 



COMPOSED AMONG THE RUINS OF A CAS- 
TLE IN NORTH WALES. 

Through shattered galleries, 'mid roofless 

halls, 
Wandering with timid footsteps At be- 
trayed, 
The Stranger sighs, nor scruples to upbraid 
Old Time, though he, gentlest among the 

Thralls 
Of Destiny, upon these wounds hath laid 
His lenient touches, soft as light that falls. 
From the wan Moon, upon the towers and 

walls. 
Light deepening the profoundest sleep of 

shade. 
Relic of Kings! Wreck of forgotten wars. 
To winds abandoned and the prying stars. 
Time l(n>es Thee ! at his call the Seasons 

twine 
Luxuriant wreaths around thy forehead 

hoar ; 
And, though past pomp no changes can 

restore, 
A soothing recompense, his gift, is thine ! 



TO the lady E. B. and the HON. MISS P. 

) Composed in the Grounds of Plass Newidd, 
near Llangollen, 1824. 

A Stream, to mingle with your favorite 

Dee, 
Along the Vale of Meditation * flows ; 
So styled by those fierce Britons, pleased to 

see 
In Nature's face the expression of repose ; 
Or haply there some pious hermit chose 
' To live and die, the peace of heaven his 

aim ; 
j To whom the wild sequestered region owes. 
At this late day, its sanctifying name. 



* Glyn Myryr. 



Glvn Cafaillgaroch, in the Cambrian 

toni^uc, 
In ours, the Vale of Friendship, let 

this spot 
Be named ; where, faithful to a low-roofed 

Cot, 
On Deva's banks, ye have abode so long : 
Si ers in love, a love allowed to climb. 
Even on this earth, above the reach at 

Time I 



to the torrent at the devil'6 
bridge, north wales, 1824. 

How art thou named ? In search of what 

strange land 
From what huge height, descending ? Can 

such force 
Of waters issue from a British source. 
Or hath not Pindus fed thee, where the 

band 
Of Patriots scoop their freedom out, with 

hand 
Desperate as thine ? Or come the incessant 

shocks 
From that young Stream, that smites the 

throbbing rocks 
Of Viamala ? There I seem to stand, 
As in life's morn ; permitted to behold. 
From the drca I chasm, woods climbing 

above woods, 
In pomp that fades not ; everlasting snows ; 
AjKJLaliJes that ne'er relinquish.tl>eir repose_^ 
Sucii power possess the family <jf floods 
Over the minds of Poets, young or old I 

XI. 

IN THE WOODS OF RVDAL. 

Wild Redbreast! hadst thou at Jemima's 

lip 
Pecked, as at mine, thus boldly, Love might 

say, 
A half-blown rose had tempted thee to sip 
Its glistening dews ; but hallowed is the 

clay 
Which the Muse warms; and I, whose 

head is gray. 
Am not unworthy of thy fellowship- 
Nor could 1 let one thought — one motion^ 

slip 
That might thy sylvan confidence betray. 
For are we not all His without whose care 
Vouchsafed no sparrow falleth to tho 

ground ? 
Who gives his Angels wings to spetxl 

through air, 



244 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 



And rolls the planets through the blue pro- 
found : 

Then peck or perch, fond Flutterer ! nor 
forbear 

To trust a Poet in still musings bound. 

XII. 

When Phlloctetes in the Lemnian isle 
Like a Form sculptured on a monument 
Lay couched :/ on him or his dread bow un- 
bent ^ 
Some wild Bird oft might settle and beguile 
The rigid features of a transient smile, 
Disperse the tear, or to the sigh give vent, 
Slackening the pains of ruthless banishment 
From his loved home, and from heroic toil. 
And trust that spiritual Creatures round us 

move, 
Griefs to allay which Reason cannot heal ; 
Yea, veriest reptiles have sufificed to prove 
To fettered wretchedness, that no Bastile 
Is deep enough to exclude the li^ht of love, 
TlVough man for brother man has ceased to 
feel. 

XIII. 

While Anna's peers and early playmates 

tread. 
In freedom, mountain-turf and river's marge ; 
Or tioat with music in the festal barge ; 
Rein the proud steed, or through the 

dance are led ; 
Iler doom it is to press a weary bed- 
Till oft her guardian Angel, to some charge 
More urgent called, will stretch his wings 

at large, 
And friends too rarely prop the languid 

head. 
Yet, helped by Genius — untired comforter, 
The presence even of a stuffed Owl for her 
Can cheat the time ; sending her fancy out 
To ivied castles and to moonlight skies, 
Though he can neither stir a plume, nor 

shout ; 
Nor veil, with restless film, his staring eyes. 

XIV. 
TO THE CUCKOO. 

Not the whole warbling grove in concert 

heard 
When sunshine follows shower, the breast 

can tlirill 
Like the first summons. Cuckoo ! of tliy 

bill, 
With its twin notes inseparably paired 



The captive 'mid damp vaults imsunned, 
iinaired. 

Measuring the periods of his lonely doom, 

That cry can reach ; and to the sick man's 
room * 

Sends gladness, by no languid smile de- 
clared. 

The lordly eagle-race through hostile search 

May perish ; time may come when never 
more 

The wilderness shall hear the lion roar ; 

But, long as cock shall crow from house- 
hold perch 

To rouse the dawn, soft gales sh.all speed 
thy wing. 

And thy erratic voice be faithful to the 
Spring 1 



TO 



[Miss not the occasion ; by the forelock take 
'I'liat subtile Power, tlu- never-haltina; Time, 
Lest a inere moment's putting off should make 
Mischance almost as heavy as a crime.] 

" Wait, prithee, wait I" this answer Lesbia 

threw 
Forth to her Dove, and took no further heed. 
Her eye was busy, while her fingers flew 
•Across the harp, with soul-engrossing speed ; 
But from that bondage when her thoughts 

were freed 
She rose, and toward the close-shut casement 

drew. 
Whence the poor unregarded Favorite, true 
To old affections, had been heard to plead 
With flapping wing for entrance. What a 

shriek 
Forced from that voice so lately tuned to a 

strain 
Of harmony ! — a shriek of terror, pain. 
And self-reproach ! for, from aloft, a Kite 
Pounced, — and the Dove, which from its 

ruthless beak 
She could not rescue, perished in her sight S 

XVI. 
THE INFANT M M . 

Unquiet Childhood here by special grace 
Forgets her nature, opening like a flower 
That neither feeds nor wastes its vital power 
In painful struggles. Months each other 

chase. 
And naught untunes that Infant's voice ; no 

trace 



MfSCELLAN-EOUS SOXNE TS. 



245 



Of fretful temper sullies her pure cheek ; 
Prompt, lively, self-sufficing, yet so meek 
Tliat one cnrapt with s^zi"? on hor face 
(Which even the placid innocence of death 
Could scarcely make more placid, heaven 

more bright) 
Might learn to picture, for the eye of faith, 
The Virgin, as she slione with kindred light ; 
A nursling couched upon her mother's knee, 
Beneath some shady palm of Galilee. 

XVII. 
TO , IN HER SEVEXTIETII YEAR. 

.^UCH age how beautiful ! O Lady bright. 
Whose mortal '.ineamcnts seem 'all refmcd 
l)y favoring Nature and a saintly Mind 
To something purer and more exquisite 
Than flesh and bit'od ; where'er thou niect'st 

my sight, 
When I behold ihy blanched unwithcrcd 

cheek. 
Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming 

white, 
And head that droops because tlie soul is 

meek, 
The- with the welcome Snowdrop I com- 
pare ; 
That child of winter, prompting thoughts 

that climb 
From desolation toward the genial prime ; 
Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty 

air. 
And filling more and more with crystal light 
As pensive Evening deepens into night. 

XVIII. 
TO ROTHA Q . 

RoTiiA, my Spiritual Child ! this head was 

gray 
When at the sacred font for thee I stood : 
Pledged till thou reach the verge of woman- 
hood, 
And .shalt become thy own sufificient stay : 
Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan ! was the day 
For steadfast hope th.e contract to fulfil ; 
N'ct shall my blessing hover o'er thee still, 
r".ml)()dicd in the music of tiiis Lay, 
Prcathcd forth beside the peaceful mountain 

Stream * 
W'hose murmur soothed thy languid Mother's 

ear 
After her throes, this Stream of name more 
dear 



* The river Rotha. diat flows into Winder- 
aaere from the Lakes u£ Grasmere and Rydal. 



Since thou dost bear it, — a memorial theme 
For others ; for thy future self, a spell 
To summon fancies out of Time's dark 
cell. 

XIX. 

A ORAVE-STONIi UPON THE FLOOR IN 
THE CLOISTERS OF WORCESTER CA- 
THEDRAL. 

" MisERRiMUS ! " and neither name not 

date, 
Prayer, text, or symbol, graven upon the 

stone ; 
Naught but that word assigned to the un- 
known. 
That solitary word — to separate 
From all, and cast a cloud around the fate 
Of him who lies beneath. Most wretched 

one, 
WJio chose his epitaph ? — Him? elf alone 
Could thus have dared the grave to agitate, 
And claim, among the dead, this awful 

crown ; 
Nor doubt that He marked also for his own 
Close to these cloisti j1 steps a burial-place, 
That every foot might fall with heavier irrnd, 
Trampling upon Ins vileness. Stranger, pass 
Softly ! — To save the contrite, Jesus bled. 

XX. 

ROMAN ANTIOUITIES TISCOVERED AT 
blSHOPSTONE, HEREFORDSHIRE. 

While poring Antiquarians search the 

ground 
Upturned with curious pains, the Bard, a 

Seer, 
Takes fire : — The men that have been reap- 
pear ; 
Romans for travel girt, for business gowned; 
And some recline on couches, myrtle-crowned, 
In festal glee; why not? For fresh and 

clear. 
As if its hues were of the passing year, 
Dawns this time-buried pavement. Fron 

that mound 
Hoards may come forth of Trajans, Mas 

imins, 
Shrr.nk into coins with all their warlike tcu-. 
Or a fierce impress issues with its foil 
Of tenderness — the Wolf*, whose suckling 

Twins 
The unlettered ploughboy pities when he 

wins 
The casual treasure from the furrowed soil. 



246 



M/SCELLAA'E0(7S SOX NETS. 



n 



1S30. 
Chatsworth ! thy stately mansion, and 

the pride 
Of thy domain, strange contrast do present 
Tc house and liome in many a craggy rent 
Of the wild Peak ; where new-born waters 

glide 
Througli fields vvliose thrifty occupants abide 
As in a dear and chosen banisiiment. 
With every semblance of entire content 
So kind is simple Nature, fairly tried I 
Yet He whose heart in childhood gave her 

troth 
To pastoral dales, thin-set with modest farms, 
May learn, if judgment strengthen with his 

growtli, 
Tliat, not for Fancy only, pomp hath charms ; 
And, strenuous to protect from lawless harms 
Tlie extremes of favored life, may honor 

both. 



A TRADITION OF OKER HILL IN DARI-EY 
DALE, DERBYSHIRE. 

'Tis said that to the brow of yon fair hill 
Two Brothers clomb, and, turning face from 

face, 
Nor one look more exchanging, grief to still 
Or feed, each planted on that loftv place 
A chosen Tree ; then, eager to fulfil 
Their courses, like two new-born rivers, they 
In opposite directions urged their way 
Pown from tine far-seen mount. No blast 

might kill 
Or blight that fond memorial ; — the trees 

grew. 
And now entwine their arms ; but ne'er 

again 
Jimbraced those Brothers upon Earth's wide 

plain ; 
Nor aught of !n"tual iov or sorrow knew 
Until their spirits mingled in the sea 
Tliat to itself takes all, Eternity. 

XXIII. 

FILIAL PIETY. 

iON THE WAYSIDE BETWEEN PRESTON 
AND LIVERPOOL). 

Untouched through all severity of cold ; 
'nviolate, whate'er tlie cottage hearth 
Might need for comfort, or for festal mirth 
That Pile of Turf is half a century old : 
Yes, Traveller ! fifty winters have been told 



Since suddenly the dart of death went forth 
'Gainst him who raised it, — his last work on 

earth : 
Thence has it, with the Son, so strong a hold 
Upon his Father's memory, that his hands, 
Through reverence, touch it only to repair 
its waste. — Though crumbling with each 

breath of air, 
In annual renovation thus it stands — 
Rude Mausoleum 1 but wrens nestle there, 
And red-breasts warble when sweet sounds 

are rare. 

XXIV. 

to the author's portrait. 
[Faulted at Rydal Mount, by W. Pickersgill, 

Esq., for St. John's College, Cambridge.] 
Go, faithful Portrait ! and where long hath 

knelt 
Margaret, the saintly Foundress, take thy 

place ! 
And, if Time spare the colors for the grace 
Which to the work surpassing skill hath 

dealt. 
Thou, on thy rock reclined, though kingdoms 

melt 
And states be torn up by the roots, wilt seem 
To breathe in rural peace, to hear the streain, 
And think and feel, as once the Poet felt. 
Whate'er thy fate, those features have not 

grown 
Unrecognized through many a household 

tear 
More prompt, more glad, to fall than drops 

of dew 
By morning shed around a flower half-blown ; 
Tears of delight, that testified how true 
To life thou art, and, in thy truth, how dear ! 

XXV. 

Why art thou silent ? Is thy love a plant 
Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air 
Of absence withers what was once so fair ? 
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant ? 
Yut iiave my thou^lits for thee been vig- 
ilant — 
Bound to thy service with unceasing care. 
The mind's least generous wish a mendicant 
For naugnt but what thy happiness could 

spare. 
Speak— though this soft warm heart, once 

free to hold 
A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine. 
Be left more desolate, more dreary cold 
Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow 
'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine — 
Speak, that ray torturing, doubts their en6 
mai'knowl 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 



247 



XXVI. 

re B. R. HAYDON, ON SEEING HIS PIC- 
TURE OF NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE ON 
THE ISLAND OF ST. HELENA, 

IIaydon I let worthier judges praise the 

Slvlll 

Here by thy pencil shown in truth of lines 
And (.harm of colors ; / applaud those signs 
Of thought, that give the true poetic thrill ; 
That unencumbered wliole of blank and still, 
Sky without cloud — ocean without a wave ; 
And the one Man that labored to enslave 
'I be World, sole-standing high on the bare 

hill- 
Back turned, arms folded, the unapparent 

face 
Tinged, we may fancy, in this dreary place 
With li:;ht reflected from the invisible sun 
j Set, like his fortunes ; but not set for aye 
I Like them. The unguilty Power pursues 
his way. 
And before him doth dawn perpetual run. 

XXVII. 

A Poet ! — He hath put his heart to school, 
Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff 
Which Art hath lodged within his hand — 
j must laugh 

By precept only, and sheitears by rule. 
T'ly Art be Nature ; the live current quaff. 
And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, 
In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool 
Have killed him, Scorn should write his 

epitaph. 
How does the Meadow-flower its bloom un- 
fold > 
Because the lovely little flower is free 
Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold ; 
And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree 
Comes not by casting in a formal mould, 
But from its own divine vitality. 



The most alluring clouds that mount the 

sky 
Owe to a troubled element their forms. 
Their hues to sunset, .f with rapturod eye 
We watch their splendor, shall we covet 

storms, 
And wish the Lord of day his slow decline 
Would hasten, that such pomp may float on 

high ? 
Behold, already they forget to shine, 
Dissolve — and leave to him who gazeda sigl;. 
Not loth to thank each moijjent for its boon 



Of pure dehght, come whencesoe'er it may, 
Peace let us seek, — to steadfast things 

attune 
Calm expectations : leaving to the gay 
And volatile their love of transient bowers. 
The house that cannc t pass away be ours. 

XXIX 

on a portrait of the duke of WEI 
LINGTON UPON THE FIELD OF WATER 
LOO, BV HAYDON. 

By Art's bold privilege Warrior and Wai 

horse stand 
On ground yet strewn with their last battle's 

wreck ; 
Let tl\e Steed glory while his Master'* hand 
Lies fixed for ages on his conscious neck ; 
But by the Chieftain's look, though at his 

side 
Hangs that day's treasured sword, how firm 

a check 
Is given to triumph and all human pride ! 
Yon trophied Mound shrinks to a shadowy 

speck 
In his calm presence ! Him the mighty 

deed 
Elates not, brought far nearer ths grave's 

rest. 
As shows that time-worn face, for he such 

seed 
Has sown as yields, we trust, the fruit of 

fame 
In Heaven ; hence no one blushes for thy 

name. 
Conqueror, mid some sad thoughts divinely 

blest ! 

XXX. 

COMPOSED ON A MAY MORNING, 1838, 

Life with yon Lambs, like day, is just 

begun, 
Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide, 
Does joy approach ? they meet the coming 

tide ; 
And suUenness avoid, as now they shun 
Pale twilight's lingering glooms,— and in 

the sun 
Couch near their dams, with quiet satisfied ; 
Or gambol — each with his shadow at his 

side, 
Varying its shape wherever he may run. 
As they from turf yet hoar vvith sleepy dew 
All tun., and court the shining and the 

green, 
WluTO herbs look up, and opening flowers 

are seen ; 



248 



M ISC EL L A NE OUS SONNE TS. 



Why to God's goodness cannot We be true ? 
And so, His gifts and promises between, 
Feed to tlie last on pleasures ever new ? 

XXXI. 

Lo ! where she stands fixed in a saint-like 
trance. 

One upward hand, as if she needed rest 

From rapture, lying softly on her breast ! 

Nor wants her eyeball an ethereal glance ; 

But not the less — nay more — that counte- 
nance, 

While thus illumined, tells of painful strife 

For a sick heart made weary of this life 

By love, long crossed with adverse circum- 
stance, 

— Would She were now as when she hoped 
to pass 

At God's appointed hour to them who 
tread 

Heaven's sapphire pavement ; yet breathed 
well content, 

Well pleased, her foot should print earth's 
common grass, 

Lived thankful for day's light, for daily 
bread, 

For health, and time in obvious duty spent. 

XXXII. 
TO A PAINTER. 

All praise the Likeness by thy skill por- 
trayed ; 

But tis a fruitless task to paint for me, 

Who, yielding not to changes 'J'ime has 
made. 

By the habitual light of memory see 

Eyes unbedimmed, see bloom that cannot 
fade, 

And smiles that from their birth-place ne'er 
shall flee 

Into the land where ghosts and phantoms 

And, seeing this, own nothing in its stead. 

Could'st thou go back into far-distant years. 

Or share with me, fond tliought ! that in- 
ward eye. 

Then, and then only. Painter ! could thy 
Art 

The visual powers of Nature satisfy. 

Which hold, whate'er to common sight 
appears, 

Their sovereign empire in a faithful heart. 

XXXIII. 
ON THE SAME SUBJECT. 

Though I beheld at first with blank sur- 
prise 
This Work, 1 now have gazed on it so long 



I see its tiuth with unreluctant eyes; 
0,-iny Beloved .'' 1 have done thee wrong, 
Conscious of blessedness, but, whence it 

spruug, 
Ever too heedless, as I now perceive : 
M^orn ioto noon did pass, noon into eve;, 
And the old day was welcome as the young, 
As welcome, and as beautiful — in sooth 
More_ beautiful, as being a thing more holy: 
Thanks to thy virtues, to tlie eternal youth 
Of all thy goodness, never melancholy ; 
To thy large heart and humble mind, that 

cast 
Into one vision, future, present, past. 

XXXIV. 

Hark ! 'tis the Thrush, undaunted, unde' 

prest. 
By twilight premature of cloud and rain ; 
Nor does that roaring wind deaden his 

strain 
Who carols thinking of his Love and nest. 
And seems, as more incited, still mere blest. 
Thanks ; thou hast snapped a fire-side 

Prisoner's chain. 
Exulting Warbler ! eased a fretted brain. 
And in a moment charmed my cares to 

rest. 
Yes, I will forth, bold Bird « and front the 

blast. 
That we may sing together, if thou wilt, 
!So loud, so clear, iiiy Partner through life's 

day. 
Mute in her nest love-chosen, if not love' 

built 
Lik? thine, shall gladden, as in seasons 

past. 
Thrilled by loose snatches of the social Lay. 
Rydal Mount, 1838. 



'Tis He whose yester-evening's high disdain 
Beat hack the roaring storm — but how sub' 

dued 
His day-break note, a sad vicissitude I 
Does tlie hour's drowsy weight his glee 

restrain ? 
Or, like the nightingale, her joyous vein 
Pleased to renounce, does this dear Thrush 

attune 
His voice to suit the temper of yon Moon 
Doubly depressed, setting, and in her wane? 
Rise, tardy Sun ! and let the Songster 

prove 
(The balance trembling between night and 

moni 



MISCE LLANEOUS SONNE TS. 



249 



No longer) witli that ecstasy upborne 

He can pour forth his spirit. In heaven 
above, 

And earth below, they best can serve true 
gladness 

Who meet most feelingly the calls of sad- 
ness. 

XXXVI. 

Oh what a Wreck ! how changed in mien 

and speech ! 
Yet — though dread Powers, that work in 

mystery, spin 
Entanglings of the brain ; though shadows 

stretch 
O'er the chilled heart — reflect ; far, far 

within 
Hers is a holy Being, freed from Sin. 
She is not what slie -jecnis, a forlorn wretch, 
But delegated Spirits comfort fetch 
To Her from heights that Reason may not 

win. 
Like Children, She is privileged to hold 
Divine communion ; both do live and move, 
Whate'er to shallow Faith their ways un- 
fold, 
Inly illumined by Heaven's pitying love ; 
Love pitying innocence not long to last. 
In them— in Her our sins and sorrows past. 



Intent on gathering wool from hedge and 

brake 
Yon busy Little-ones rejoice that soon 
A poor old Dame will bless them for the 

boon : 
Great is their glee while flake they add to 

flake 
With rial earnestness; far other strife 
Than will hereafter move them, if they 

make 
Pastime their idol, give their day of life 
To pleasure snatched for reckless pleasure's 

sake. 
Can pomp and show allay one heart-born 

grief.? 
Pains which the World inflicts can she 

requite ? 
Not for an interval however brief ; 
The silent thoughts that search for steadfast 

Love from her depths, and Duty in her 

might, 
And Faith — these only yield secure relief. 
March %th, 1842. 



A PLEA FOR AUTHORS, MAV, 1838. 

Failing impartial measure to dispense 
To every suitor. Equity is lame : 
And social Justice, stript of reverence 
For natural rights, a mockery and a shame , 
Law but a servile dupe of false pretence. 
If, guarding grossest things from common 

claim 
Now and forever, She, to works that came 
From mind and spirit, grudge a short-lived 

fence. 
" What ! lengthened privilege, a lineal tie. 
For Books ! " Yes, heartless Ones, or be it 

proved 
That 'tis a fault in Us to have lived and 

loved 
Like others, with like temporal hopes to 

die; 
No public harm that Genius from her 

course 
Be turned ; and streams of truth dried up, 

even at their source ! 



valedictory sonnet. 

Ciosing lliP Volume c f Sonnets published in 
1838. 

Serving no haughty Muse, my hands have 

here 
Disposed some cultured Flowerets (drawn 

from spots 
Where they bloomed singly, or in scattered 

knots), 
Each kind in several beds of one parterre ; 
Both to allure the casual loiterer. 
And that, so placed, my Nurslings may 

requite 
Studious regard with opportune delight, 
Nor be unthanked, unless I fondly err. 
But metaphor dismissed, and thanks apart 
Reader, farewell ! My last words let then 

be— 
If in this book Fancy and Truth agree ; 
If simple Nature trained by careful Art 
Through It have won a passage to th) 

heart ; 
Grant me thy love, I crave no other feel 



250 



MfSCELLAMEOUS SONNETS. 



TO THE REV. CHRISTOPHER WORDS- 
WORTH, D.D., MASTER OK HARROW 
SCHOOL, 

After the perusal of hisTheophilus Anglicanus, 

recently published. 
Enlightened Teacher, gladly from thy 

hand 
Have 1 received this proof of pains be- 
stowed 
By Thee to guide thy Pupils on the road 
That, in our native isle, and every land, 
Tlic Church, when trusting in divine com- 
mand 
And in her Catholic attributes, hath trod : 
O may these lessons be with profit scanned 
To thy heart's wish, thy lato'' blest by 

God! 
So tlie bright faces of the young and gay 
Shall look more bright — the hapny, happier 

still ; 
Catch, in tlie pauses of their keenest play. 
Motions cf thought which elevate the will 
And, like the Spire that from your classic 
Hill [way. 

Points heavenward, indicate the end and 
Rydal Mount ^ Dec. 11, 1843. 

XLI. 

TO THE PLANET VENUS. 

Upon its ajiproxinialion (as an Evening Star) to 

tlie Eartli, Jan., 183S. 
What strong allurement draws, what spirit 

guides. 
Thee, Vesper ! brightening still, as if the 

nearer 
Tiiou com'st to man's abode the spot grew 

drearer 
rJii>ht after night ? True is it Nature hides 
Her treasures less and less. — Man now pre- 
sides 
In power, where once he trembled in his 

weakness : 
Science advances with gigantic strides f 
But are we aught enriched in love and 

meekness } 
Alight dost thou see, bright Star ! of pure 

and wise 
Mor tlian in humbler times graced hiim^n 

story ; [thize 

Thai makes our hearts more apt to sympa- 
With heaven, our souls more fit for future 

Slory, 
When earth shall vanish from our closing 

pyes, ^ 

Ere we lie down in our last dormitory ? 



XLII. 

Wansfell ! * this Household has a favored 

lot. 
Living with liberty on thee to gaze, 
To watch while Morn first crowns Ihee with 

her rays. 
Or when along thy breast serenely float 
Evening's angelic clouds. Yet ne'er a note 
Hath sounded (shame upon the Bard!) thy 

praise 
For all that thou, as if from heaven, hast 

brought 
Of glory lavished on our quiet days. 
Bountiful Son of Eartlii" when wc are gone 
From every object dear to mortal sight. 
As soon wc shall be, may tliese words attest 
How oft, to elevate our spirits, shone 
Tliy visionary majesties of liglit, 
How in thy pensive glooms our hearts found 

rest. 
Dec. 24, 1842. 

XLIII. 

While b- ams of orient lights shoot wide 

and higli. 
Deep in the vale a little rural Town t 
Breathes forth a cloud-like creature of its 

own, 
That mounts not toward the radiant morn- 
ing sky, 
But, with a less ambitious sympathy, 
Hangs o'er its Parent waking to the cares, 
Troubles and toils that every day prepares. 
So Fancy, to the musing Poet's eye, 
Endears that Lingerer. And how blest her 

sway 
(Like influence never may my soul reject) 
If the calm Heaven, now to its zenith 

decked 
With glorious forms in numberless array, 
To the lone shepherd on the hills disclose 
Gleams from a world in which the saintj 
repose. 
Jan. I, 1S43. 

XLIV. 

In my mind's eyes a Temple, like a cloud 
Slowly surmounting some invidious hill. 
Rose out of darkness the bright Work 

stood still ; 
And might ot its own beauty have been 

proud. 
But it was fashioned and to God was vowed 
By Virtues that diffused, in every part. 
Spirit divine through forms of human art; 



* The Hill that rises to the south-east, abov* 
AmblP'^irle. 
t Ambleside. 



iMU^CELLAAEOUS SONAE TS. 



251 



Faith had her arcli — her arcli, wlicn winds 

blow loud. 
Into the consciousness of safety tlinllcd , 
And lovp her towers of dread foundation 

laid 
Under the grave of tilings ; Hope had her 

spire 
Star high, and pointing still to something 

higher ; 
Trembling I gazed, but heard a voice — it 

said 
" Hell-gates arc powerless Phantoms when 

wc build."' 

XLV. 
ON THE PKOJECTinj KHNDAL AND WIN- 
DERMERE RAILWAY. 
Is then no nook of English ground secure 
I'lom rasli assault ? Sclicmes of retirement 

sown 
III j'outh, and mid the busy world kept pure 
As wiien their earliest flowers of hope were 

blown, 
Must perish ; — how can they this blight en- 
dure ? 
And must he too the ruthless change bc- 

n.oan 
Who scorns a false utilitarian lure 
Mid l)is paternal fields at random thrown ? 
Bailie the threat, bright Scene, from Orrest- 

hcad 
Given to tlie pausing traveller's rapturous 

glance : 
Plead for thy peace, thou beautiful romance 
Of nature ; and, if human hearts be dead. 
Speak, passing winds ; ye torrents, with 

your strong 
And constant voice, protest against the 

wrong. 
October 12, 1S44. 

XLVI. 

Proud were ye, Mountains, when, in times 

of old, 
Your patriot sons, to stem invasive war, 
Intre iched your brows : ye gloried in each 

scar : 
Now, for your shame, a Power, the Thi-rst 

of Gold, 
That rules o'er Britain like a baneful star, 
Wills that your peace, your beauty, shall be 

sold. 
And clear wajniade for her triumphal car 
Tiirougii the beloved retreats your arms en- 
fold ! 
Heard Ye that Whistle? As her long- 
linked Train 



Swept onwards, did the vision cross your 

view 'i 
Yes, ye were startled ;— and, in balance true, 
Weighing the mischief with the promised 

gain. 
Mountains, and Vales, and Floods, I call on 

you 
To share the passion of a just disdain. 

XLVII. 
AT FURNESS ABBEY. 

Here, where, of havoc tired and rash un 

doing, 
Man lelt this Structure to become Time'* 

A soothing Spirit follows in the way 
That Nature takes, her counter-work pursu- 
ing. 
See how her Ivy clasps the sacred Ruin, 
Fall to prevent or beautify decay ; 
And, on the mouldered walls, liow bright, 

how gay. 
The flowers in pearly dews their bloom re- 
newing ! 
Thanks to the place, blessings upon the 

hour ; 
Even as 1 speak the rising Sun's first smile 
Gleams on the grass-crowned top of yon tall 

Tower 
Whose cawing occupants with joy proclaim 
Prescriptive title to the shattered pile 
Where, Cavendish, thine seems nothing but 
a name ! 

XLVIII. 
AT FURNESS ABBEY. 

Well have yon Railway Laborers to this 

ground 
Withdrawn for noontide rest. They sit, 

they walk 
Among the Ruins, but no idle talk 
Is heard ; to grave demeanor all are bound ; 
And from one voice a Hymn with tuneful 

sound 
Hallows once more the long-deserted Quire 
And thrills the old sepulchral earth, around. 
Others look up, and with fixed eyes admire 
That wide-spanned arch, wondering how it 

was raised. 
To k( cp, so high in air, its strength and 

grace : 
All seem to feel the spirit of the place, 
And by the general reverence God is praised ; 
Profane Despoilers, stand ye not reproved, 
While thus these simple-hearted men are 

moved ? 
June 2ist, 1845. 



lALS OF 



A TOUR IN 

1S03. 



;COTLAND. 



DEPARTURE 

FROM THE VALE OF GRASMERE. AUGUST, 
1803. 

The gentlest Shade that walked Elysian 

plains 
Might sometimes covet dissoluble chains; 
Even for the tenants of the zone that lies 
Beyond the stars, celestial Paradise, 
Methinks 'twould heighten joy to overleap 
At will the crystal battlements, and j)eep 
Into some other region, though less fair, 
To see how things are made and managed 

there. 
Change for the worse might please, incur- 
sion bold 
Into the tracts of darkness and of cold; 
O'er Limbo lake with aery flight to steer, 
And on the verge of Chaos hang in fear. 
Such animation often do I find, 
Power in my breast, wings growing in my 

mind, ' 

Then, when some rock or hill is overpast, 
Perchance without one look behind me cast, 
Some barrier with which Nature, from the 

birth 
Of things, has fenced this fairest spot on 

earth. 
O pleasant transit, Grasmere ! to resign 
Such happy fields, abodes so calm as thine : 
Not like an outcast with himself at strife ; 
The slave of business, time, or care for life. 
But moved by choice ; or, if constrained in 

part, 
Yet still with Nature's freedom at the 

heart ; — 
To cull contentment upon wildest --horcs, 
And luxuries extract from bleakest moors ; 
With prompt embrace all beauty to cnf(,!d, 
And having rights in all that we behold. 
—Then why these lingering .steps?— A 

bright adieu. 
For a brief absence, proves that love is true ; 
Ne'er can the way be irlcsome or forlorn 
That winds into itself for sweet return. 
(252} 



AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS 

1803. 

SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH,, 

I SHIVER, Spirit fierce and bold, 

At thought of what I now behold : 

As vapors breathed from dungeons cold 

Strike pleasure dead. 
So sadness comes from out the mould 

Where Burns is laid. 

And have I then thy bones so near 
And thou forbidden to appear 1 
As if it were thyself that's here 

I shrink with pain ; 
And both my wishes and my fear 

Alike are vain. 

Off weight — nor press on weight ! — away 
Dark thoughts ! — they came, but not to stay 
With chastened feelings would 1 pay 

The tribute due 
To him, and aught that hides his clay 

From mortal view. 

Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth 
He sang, his genius "glinted " forth, 
Rose like a star that touching earth, 

For so it seems, 
Doth glorify its humble birth 

With matchless beams. 

The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow. 
The struggling heart, where be they now? 
Full soon the Aspirant of the j)lough, 

The prompt, the brave. 
Slept, with the obscurest, in the low 
And silent grave. 

I mourned with thousands, but as one 
More deeply grieved, for He was gone 
Whose light 1 hailed when first it shone, 

And showed mv youth • 

Hnw \'erse may build a princely throne 

On humble truth. 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 



253 



I 



Alas ! where'er the current tends, 
Regret pursues and with it blends,— 
Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends 

By Skiddaw seen, — 
Neighbors we were, and loving friends 

We might have been ; 

True friends though diversely inclined ; 
But lieart with heart and mind with, mind, 
Where the main fibres are entwined, 

Through Nature's skill, 
May even by contraries be joined 

More closely still. 

The tear will start, and let it flow ; 
Thou " poo' Inhabitant below,'' 
At this dread moment — even so — 

Miglit we together 
Have sate and talked where gowans blow, 

Or on wild heather. 

What treasures would have then been 

pL.ced 
Within my reach ; of knowledge graced 
By fancy what a rich repi-.st ! 

But why go on ? — 
Oh ! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast, 

His grave grass-giown. 

There, too, a Son, his joy and pride, 
(Not three weeks past the Stripling died,) 
Lies gathered to his Father's sidej 

Soul-moving sight ! 
Yet one to which is not denied 

Some sad delight. 

For he is safe, a quiet bed 

Hath early found among the dead. 

Harbored where none can be misled. 

Wronged, or distrest ; 
And surely here it may be said 

T)iat such are blest. 

And oh for Thee, by pitying grace 
Checked oft-times in a devious race, 
May He who halloweth the place 

Wiicre Man is laid 
Receive thy Spirit in the embrace 

For which it prayed ! 

Sighing I turned away; but ore 
Night fell 1 heard, or seemed to liear, 
Music that sorrow comes not near, 

A ritual hymn, 
Chaunted in love that casts out fear 

By Seraphim. 



III. 
THOUGHTS 

SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING, 0?1 
THE BANKS OF NITH, NEAR THl 
poet's RESIDENCE. 

Too frail to keep the lofty vow 
That must have f( llowed when his brow 
Was wreathed — " The Vision " tells us 
how — 

With holly spray. 
He faltered, drifted to and fro, 

And passed away. 

Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, 

throng 
Our minds when, lingering all too long, 
Over the grave of Burns we hung 

In social grief — 
Indulged as if it were a wrong 

To seek relief. 

But, leaving each unquiet theme 

Where gentlest judgments may misdeem. 

And prompt to welcome every gleam 

Of good and fair, 
Let us beside this limpid Stream 

Breathe hopeful air. 

Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight ; 
Tliink rather of those moments bright 
When to the consciousness of right 

His course was true, 
When Wisdom prosi:)ered in his sight. 

And virtue grew. 

Yes, freely let our hearts expand, 
Freely, as in youth's season bland, 
Wlien side by side, his Book in iiand, 

We wont to stray. 
Our pleasure varying at command 

Of each sweet Lay. 

How oft inspired must he have trodc 
These pathways, yon far-stretcliini; load 
There lurks his home; in that Alx)de, 

Witli mirth elate. 
Or in his nobly-pensive mood. 

The Rustic sate. 

Proud thoughts that Image overawes, 

Before it humbly let us pause. 

And ask of Nature, trc^m what cause 

And by vvliat r'.iles 
She trained her Burns to win applause 

That shames the Schoulik. 



254 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 



Throu'j;h busiest street and loneliest glen 
Are felt the flashes of his pen ; 
He rules mid winter snows, and 

Bees fill their hives ; 
Deep in the general heart of men 

His power survives. 

What need of fields in some far clime 
Wliere Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime, 
'\nd all that fetched the flowing rhyme 

From genuine springs, 
Shall dwell together till old Time 

Folds up his wings ? 

Sweet Mercy ! to the gates of Heaven 
This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven ; 
The rueful conflict, the heart riven 

With vain endeavor. 
And memory of Earth's bitter leaven 

Effaced forever. 

But why to Him confine the prayer, 

When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear 

On the frail heart the purest share 

With all that live ?— 
The best of what we do and are, 

Just God, forgive ! 



TO THE SONS OF BURNS, 

^FTER VISITING THE GRAVE OK TIIHIR 
FATHER. 

" The Poet's grave is in a corner of tlie church- 
yard. We looked at it with melancholy and 
painful reflections, repeatnig to each other 
his own verses — 
" ' Is there a man whose judgment clear,' &c." 
— Extract frovt the Journal of my Fellow- 
traveller. 

'Mid crowded obelisks and urns 

1 sought the untimely grave of Burns ; 

Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns 

With sorrow true ; 
hsiA more would grieve, but that it turns 

Trembling to you ! 

Through twilight shades of good and ill 

Ye now are panting up life's hill, 

And more than common strength and skill 

Must ye display ; 
If ye would give the better will 

Its lawful sway. 



Hath nature strung your nerves to bear 
Intemperance with less harm, beware 1 
But if the Poet's wit ye share, 

Like him can speed 
The social hour— of tenfold care 

There will be need ; 

For honest men delight will take 
To spare your failings for his sake, 
Will flatter you, — and fool and rake 

Your steps pursue ; 
And of yoijr Father's name will make 

A snare for you. 

Far from their noisy haunts retire, 
And add your voicjs to the quire 
That sanctify the cottage fire 

With service meet ; 
There seek the genius of your Sire, 

His spirit greet; 

Or where, 'mid " lonely heights and hows,' 
He paid to nature tuneful vows; 
Or wiped his honorable brows 

Bedewed with toil. 
While reapers strove, or busy ploughs 

Upturned the soil ; 

His judgment with benignant ray 
Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way ; 
But ne'er to a seductive lay 

Let faith be given : 
Nor deem that " light which leads astray, 

Is Jight from Heaven." 

Let no mean hope your souls enslave; 
Be independent, generous, brave; 
Your Father sucli example gave. 

And such revere ; 
But be admonished by his grave, 

And think, and fear! 



1 



ELLEN IRWIN: 



THE BRAES OF KIKTLE. 

Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate 
Upon the braes of Kirtle, 
Was lovely as a Grecian maid 
Adorned with wreaths of mvrtle ; 



* The Kiltie is a river in tlie southern pai t 
I of Scotland, on the banks of which the eveoiS 
i here related took place. 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 



2S5 



Young Adam Bruce beside her lay, 
And there did they bec;uile the day 
Witli love and gentle speeches, 
Beneath the budd-ng beeches. 

From many knights and many squires 
The Bruce had bicn selected ; 
And Gordon, fairest of them all, 
l'>y Ellen was rejected. 
Sad tidings to that noble Youth ! 
For it may be proclaimed with truth, 
If Bruce had loved sincerely. 
That Gordon loves as dearly. 

But what are Gordon's, form and face, 
His shattered hoi)cs and crosses. 
To them, 'mid Kirtle's- pleasant braes, 
Reclined on flowers and okjsscs ? 
Alas that ever he was born ! 
'J'he Gordon, couched behind a thorn, 
Sees th^in and their caressing ; 
Beholds them blest and blessing. 

Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts 
Tliat through his brain are travelling, 
Rushed forth, and at the iv?art of Bruce 
fie launched a deadly javelin ! 
Fair Ellen saw it as it came. 
And, starting up to meet the same, 
Did with her body cover 
The Youth, her chosen lover. 

And, falling into Bruce's arms, 
Tl\us died the beauteous Ellen, 
Thus, from the heart of her True-love, 
The mortal spear repelling. 
And Bruce, as soon as he had slain 
The Gordon, sailed away to Spain ; 
And fought with rage incessant 
Against "the Moorish crescent. 

But.many days and many months. 
And many years ensuing, 
T!us wretched Knight did vainly seek 
The death tliat he was wooing. 
So, coming his last help to crave, 
Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave 
His body he extended, 
And there his sorrow ended. 

Now ye, who willingly have heard 
The tale I have been telling. 
May in Kirkonnel churchyard view 
The grave of lovely Ellen : 
By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid ; 
And, for the stone upon his head, 
May no rude hand deface it, 
And its forlorn Ijic JilfCt ! 



VI. 

TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. 

(AT INVERSNEYDE,UPON LOCH LOMOXU ] 

Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 

Of beauty is thy earthly dower! 

Twice seven consenting years have shed 

Their utmost bounty on thy head : 

And these gray rocks ; that household 

lawn ; 
Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; 
This fall of water that doth make 
A murmur near the silent lake ; 
This little bay ; a quiet road 
Tiiat holds in shelter tiiy Abode— 
In truth together do ye seem 
Like something fashioned in a dream; 
Such Forms as from their covert peep 
When earthly cares are laid asleep ; 
But, O fair Creature ! in the light 
Of common day, so heavenly bright, 
I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, 
I bless thee with a human heart ; 
(u)d shield thee to thy latest years! 
Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers ; 
And yet my eyes are filled with tears. 

With earnest feeling I shall pray 
For thee when I am far away T 
F"or never saw I mien, or face. 
In which more plainly I could trace 
Benignity and home-bred sense 
Ripening in perfect innocence. 
Here scattered, like a random seed. 
Remote from men, Thou dost not need 
The embarrassed look of shy distress, 
And maidenly shamefacedness ; 
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
The freedom of a Mountaineer; 
A face with gladness overspread ! 
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred I 
And seemlincss complete, that sways 
Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; 
With no restramt, but such as springs 
From quick and eager visitings 
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
Of thy few words of English sjjccch : 
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife 
That gives thy gestures grace and life I 
So have 1, not unmoved in mind, 
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind — 
Thus beating up against the wind. 

What hand but would a garland cull 
For thee who art so beautiful '\ 
O haijpy pleasure ! here to dwell 
Beside thee in some heathy dell : 



250 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 



Adopt your homely ways and dress, 
A Shepherd, though a Shepherdess! 
But I could frame a wish fur thee 
More like a grave reality 
Thou art to me but as a wave 
Of the wild sea : and J would have 
Some claim upon thee, if 1 could, 
Tiiough but of common neighborhood 
What joy to hear thee, and to see ! 
Thy elder Brother I would be. 
Thy Father — anything to thee ! 

Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
Hath led me to this lonely place. 
Joy have 1 had ; and going hence 
1 bear away my recompense. 
In spots like these it is we prize 
Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes . 
Then, why should I be loth to stir ? 
1 feel this place was made for her : 
To give vttw pleasure like the past, 
Continued long as life shall last. 
Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, 
Sweet Highland Girl ! from thee to part ; 
For I, methinks, till I grow old, 
As fair before me shall behold 
As I do now the cabin small, 
'J'he lake, the bay, the waterf.dl ; 
And Thee, the Spirit of them all ! 



GLEN- ALMA IN ; 

OR, 
THE NARROW OLE N. 

In this still place, remote from men, 

Sleeps Ossian, in the narrow glen \ 

In this still place, where murmurs on 

JUit one meek streamlet, only one : 

He sang of battles, and the breath 

Of stormy war, and violent death ; 

And should, methinks, when all was past, 

Have rightfully been laid at last 

Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent 

As by a spirit turbulent ; [wild. 

Where sights were rough, and sounds were 

Aiul everything unreconciled ; 

In some complaining, dim retreat, 

I'or fear and melancholy meet ; 

But this is calm ; there cannot be 

A more entire tranquillity. 

Does then the Bard sleep here indeed .? 
Or is it but a groundless creed i 
Wlnt matters it? — I blame them not 
Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot 



Was moved ; and in such way expressed 

Their notion of its perfect rest. 
A convent, even a hermit's cell. 
Would break the silence of this Dell , 
It IS not quiet, is not ease , 
But something deeper far tlian these- 
The separation that is here 
Is of the grave ; and of austere 
Yet happy feelings of the dead 
And, therefore, was it rightly said 
That Ossian, last of all his race! 
Lies buried in this lonely place 



STEPPING WESTWARD. 

Willie iny Fellow-traveller and I were walkinj^ 
by llie side of Locli Ketterine, one fine even- 
ing after sunset, in Dur road to a Hut wliere, 
in the course of cut Tour, we had lieen hos- 
pitably entertained some weeks before, we 
met, in one of the loneliest jtarts of that soli- 
tary region, two well-dressed Women, one ( { 
whom said to us, by way of greeting, " What, 
you are stepping westward ? '' 

" What, yoii are sieppitig wcshvard? *~ 

— 'Twould be a zvildish destiny. 

If we, who thus together roam 

In a strange Land, and far from home, 

W^ere in this place the guests of Chance 

Vet who would stop, or fear to advance, 

Though home or shelter he had none. 

With such a sky to lead him on 1 

The dewy ground was dark and cfild ; 
liehind, all gloomy to behold ; 
And stepping westward seemed to be 
A kind of heavoily destiny . 
I liked tlie greeting; 'twas a sound. 
Of something without ]ilace or bound: 
And seemed to give me spiritual right 
To travel through that region bright. 

The voice was soft, and she who spake 

Was walking by her native lake : 

The salutation had to me 

The very sound of courtesy: 

Its power was felt; and while my eye 

Was fixed upon the glowing Sky, 

The echo of the voice enwrought 

A human sweetness witli the thought 

Of travelling through tlie world that Jay 

Before me in my endless way. 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 



2r 



1-) 



THE SOLITARY REAPER. 

Behold her, single in the field, 
Von solitary Highland Lass ! 
Reaping and singing by hcrselt ; 
Stop here, or gently pass ! 
Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
And sings a melancholy strain ; 
O listen I for the Vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 

No Nightingale did ever cliaimt 
More welcome notes to weary bands 
Of travellers in some shady haunt, 
Amo:ig Arabian sands : 
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking the silence of the seas 
Among the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings ? — 

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 

For old, unhappy, far-off things, 

And battles long ago ; 

Or is it some more humble lay. 

Familiar matter of to-day ? 

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 

That has been, and may be again 1 

Whate'cr the theme, the Maiden sang 
As if her song could have no ending ; 
I saw her singing at her work, 
And o'er the sickle bending ; — 
I listened, motionless and still ; 
And, as I mounted up the hill, 
The music in my heart 1 bore, 
Long after it was heard no more. 



X. 

ADDRESS 

TO 



KILCHURN CASTLE, UPON LOCH AWE. 

From the lop of the hill a most impressive 
scene opened upon our view, — a ruined Castle 
on an Island (for an Island tlie flood liad made 
it) at some distance from tlie shore, backed 
by a Cove of tlie Mountain Cruachan, down 
which came a foaminsi stream. The Castle 
occupied every foot of the Island that was 
vijible to us, appearing to rise out of the 
water, — mists rested upon the mouutam side, 
with sjwts of sunshine ; liiere was a mild 
desolation in the low jirounds, a so'emn 
grandeur in the mountains, and the Castle 
wa$ wild, yet stately— not dismantled of tur- 



rets — nor the walls broken down, thtrtigh o')« 
viously a ruin." — Extract frotn the yourual 
0/ )ny Cojnpanion. 

Child of loud-throated War ! the mountain 

Stream 
Roars in thy hearing ; but thy hour of rest 
Is come, and thou art silent in thy age ; 
Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds 

are caught 
Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs. 
Oh ! there is life that breathes not ; Powers 

there are 
That touch each otherto theciuickin modes, 
Which the gross world 110 sense hath to 

perceive, 
No soul to dream of. What art Tiiou, from 

care 
Cast off— abandoned by thy n.gged Sire, 
Nor by soft Peace adopted ; tiiough,in place 
And in dimension, such that thou might'st 

seem 
But a mere footstool to ycMi sovereign I-ord, 
Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills 
Might crush, nor know that it had suffered 

harm ;) 
Yet he, not loth, in favor of thy claims 
To reverence, suspends his own ; subhiit- 

ting 
All that the God of Nature hath conferred. 
All that he Imlds in common with the stars. 
To the mrimnrial majesty of Time 
Impersonated in thy ralm decay I 

Take, then, thy seat, Vicegerent urre]mivcd ! 
Now, while a farewell gleam of evening 

light 
Is fondly lingering on thy shattered front. 
Do thou, in turn, be paramount ; and rule 
Over the pomp and beauty of a scene 
Whose mountains, torrents, lak'\ and woods, 

unite 
To pay tl.ee homage ; and with these are 

joined. 
In wilhng admiration and respect, 
Two Hearts, which in thy presence might 

be called 
Youthful as Spring.— Shade of departed 

Power, 
Skeleton of unfleshed humanity, 
The chronicle were welcome that should call 
Into the compass of distinct regard 
The toils and struggles of thy infant years I 
Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice; 
Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye, 
Frozen bv distance ; so, majestic Pile, 
To the perception of this Age, appear 



^^58 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTl.AIVD. 



Thy fierce beginnings, softened and subdued 
And quieted in diameter — the strife, 
Tiic pride, the fury uncontrollable, 
Lost on the ai^rial heights of tlie Crusades ! * 



XI. 

ROB ROY'S GRAVE. 

The history of Rob Roy is sufficiently known ; 
his grave is near the head of Loch Ketterine, 
in one of those small piufoid-like I'urial- 
grounds, of neglected and desolate apiteai- 
ancc, which the traveller meets with in tjic 
Highlands of Scotland. 

A FAMOUS man is Robin Hood, 
'i'he English ballad-singer's joy ! 
And Scotland has a thief as good, 
An outlaw of as daring mood ; 
She has her brave Ron Rov ! 
Then clear the weeds from off his Grave, 
And let us chant a passing stave, 
In honor of that Hero brave! 

Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart 
And wondrous length and strength ot r.rm ; 
Nor craved he more to quell his foes. 
Or keep his friends from harm. 

Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave ; 
Forgive me if the praise be strong : — 
A I'oet worthy of Rob Roy 
Must scorn a timid song. 

Say, then, that he was wise as brave j 
As wise in thought as bold in deed : 
For in the principles of things 
He sought his moral creed. 

Said generous Rob, " What need of books ? 
Burn all the statutes and their shelves : 
They stir us up against our kind ; 
And worse, against ourselves. 

We have a passion — make a law, 
Too false to guide us or control ! 
And for the law itself we fight 
In bitterness of soul. 

And puzzled, blinded thus, we lose 
Distinctions that are plain and few 
These find I graven on my heart: 
That tells me what to do. 



*The tradition is, that the Castle was built by 
B Lady during the absence of lier Lord in 
Pales tiae. 



The creatures see of flood and field. 
And those that travel on the wind! 
With them no strife can last ; they i* 
In peace, and peace of mind. ' 

For why ? — because the good old rule 
Sufficeth them, the simple plan, 
That they should take who have the power 
And they should keep who can. 

A lesson that is quickly learned, 
A signal this which all can see ! 
Thus nothing here provokes the strong 
To wanton cruelty. 

All freakishness of mind is checked, 
He tamed, who fooJishly as])ires ; 
While to the measure of his might 
Each fashions his desires. 

All kinds, and creatures, stand and fall 
I!y strength of prowess or of wit : 
'Tis God's apjiointment who must sway, 
And who is to submit. 

Since, then, the rule of right is plain. 
And longest life is but a day; 
To have my ends, maintain my rights, 
I'll take the shortest way." 

And thus among these rocks he lived, 
Through summer heat and winter snow 
The Eagle, he was lord above, 
And Rob was lord below. 

So was it — 7vould, at least, liave been 
Cut through untowardness of fate; 
For Polity was then too strong — 
He came an age too late ; 

Or shall we say an age too soon ? 
For, were the bold Man living nozi>, 
How might he flourish in his pride, 
Witli buds on every bough ! 

Then rents and factors, rights of chase, 
Sheriffs, and lairds and their domains, 
Would all have seemed but paltry things, 
Not worth a moment's pains. 

Rob Roy had never lingered here. 
To these few meagre Vales confined ; 
But thought how wide the woild, the times 
How fairly to his mind 1 

And to his Sword he woidd have said, 
" Do Thou my sovereign will enact 
From land to land through half the earth I 
Judge thou of law and fact! 



I 



!l 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 



259 



'Tis fie that \vc shoiikl do our part, 
F^ec niin;;, tli;it ni.nkind should Iciirii 
That we .ire not to be surpassed 
III fatlicrly concern. 

Of old things all arc over old, 
Of good things none are good enough ; — 
We'll show that wc can help to frame 
A world of other stuff. 

I, too, will have my kings that take 
From me the sign of life and death : 
Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds, 
Obedient to my breath." 

And, if the word had been fulfilled, 
As iiii'ght have been, then, tlioui^ht of jov ! 
1'" ranee would have had her present Boast, 
And wc our own Rob Roy ! 

Oh ! say not so; compare them not ; 
1 woi.'Id not wrong tlice. Champion brave ! 
Would wrong thee nowhere; least of all 
Here standing by thy grave. 

l'"or Thou, although with some wild 

thoughts. 
Wild Chieftain of a savage Clan ! 
J la 1st this to bcKist of ; thou didst love 

The liberty of man. 

And, had it been thy lot to live 
Witii us who now behold tl^ lig'it. 
Thou would'st have nobly stirred thyself, 
And battled for the Right. 

For thou wert still the poor man's stay, 
Tiie poormans heart, the poor man's hand ; 
And all theopjiressed, who wanted strength, 
Had thine at their command. 

Bear witness many a pensive sigh 
Of tlioughtful Herdsman when he strays 
Alone upon Loch Vool's heights, 
And by Loch Lomond's braes ! 

And, far and near, through vale and hill, 
Are faces that attest the same ; 
The proud heart flashing through the eyes, 
At sound of Roii Rov's name 



XII. 

SONNET. 

COMPOSED AT C.\STLE. 

Degener.'\te Douglas ! oh, the unworthy 

Lord 
Whom mere despite of heart could so far 

please, 



.^nd love of havoc, (for with such disease 
Fame t.ixcs him,) that he could send forth 

word 
To level with the dust a noble horde, 
A bi otherhood of venerable 'J'rces, 
Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like 

these, 
Beggared and outraged ! — Many hearts de- 
plored 
The fate of those old Trees; and oft with 

pain 
The traveller, at this day, will stop and 

gaze 
On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems 1( 

heed : 
For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and 

bays. 
And the pure mountains, and the gentle 

Tweed, , 

And the green silent pastures, yet remain. 



XIII. 

YARROW UNVLSITED. 

(See the various Poems the scene of which is 
laid upon the banks of the Yarrow : in par- 
ticular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton, 
beginning, — 

" Rusk ye, busk yc, my bonny, hoiuiy Hrirlc, 
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow ! " — ) 

From Stirling castle .ve had seen 

The ruazy Forth imravellcd ; 

Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, 

And with the Tweed had travelled ; 

And when we came to Clovenford, 

Then said my " rvhisojiie Marroxv^'* 

" Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, 

And see the Braes of Yarrow." 

"Let Yarrow ioW, frac Selkirk town, 

Who have been buying, selling. 

Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own ; 

Each maiden to her dwelling! 

On Yarrow's banks let herons feed. 

Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ! 

But we will downward with the Tweed; 

Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 

There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 

Both lying right before us ; 

And Dryborough, where with chiming 

Tweed 
The lintwhites sing in chorus ; 
There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land 
Made blithe with ploufjh and harrow : 
Why throw away a needful day 
To go in search of Yarrow l 



7.6o 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 



What's Yarrow but a river bare, 
That glides the dark hills under ? 
There are a thousand such elsewhere 
As worthy of your wonder." 
"Strange words they seemed of slight and 

scorn ; 
My True-love sighed for sorrow; 
And looked me in the face, to think 
I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 

" Oh 1 green," said I, " are Yarrow's holms. 

And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,* 

But we will leave it growing. 

O'er hilly path, and open Strath, 

We'll wander Scotland thorough ; 

But, though so near, we will not turn 

\nto the dale of Yarrow. 

/-et beeves and hom*c-bred kine partake 
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ; 
The swan on still St. Mary's Lake 
Float double, swan and shadow ! 
We will not see them ; will not go, 
To-day, not yet to-morrow ; 
Enough if in our hearts we know 
There's such a place as Yarrow. 

Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown ' 
It must, or v/e shall rue it : 
We have a vision of our owm : 
Ah ! why should we undo it .? 
The treasured dreams of times long past, 
We'll keep them, winsome Marrow ! * 
For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 
'Twill be another Yarrow ! 

If Care with freezing years should come. 

And wandering seem but folly, — 

Should we be loth to stir from home, 

And yet be melancholy ; 

Should life be dull, and spirits low, 

'Twill soothe us in our sorrow, 

That earth has something yet to show, 

The bonny holms of Yarrow ! " 



XIV. 

SONNET 



Against an equal host that wore the plaid. 
Shepherds and herdsmen, — Like a whirl 

wind came 
The Highlanders, the slaughter spread like 

flame ; 
And Garry, thundering down his mountain. 

road. 
Was stopped, and could not breathe beneath 

the load 
Of the dead bodies. — 'Twas a day of shame 
For them whom precept and the pedantry 
Of cold mechanic battle do enslave. 
O for a single hour of that Dundee 
Who on that da} the word of onset gave ! 
Like conquest would the Men of England 

see ; 
And her Foes find a like inglorious grave. 



IN THE PASS OF KILLICRANKY, 

An invasion being expected, October, 1S03. 

Six thousand veterans practised in war's 

game. 
Tried men, at Killicranky were arrayed 



♦ Sec Hamilton's Ballad as above. 



THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH 
AND HER HUSBAND. 

At Jedborough, my companion and I went into 
private lodgings for a few days ; and tlie fol- 
lowing Verses were called forth by tlu: char- 
acter and domestic situation of our Hostess. 

Age ! twine thy brows witli fresh spring 

flowers. 
And call a train of laughing Hours ; 
And bid them dapce, and bid them sing ; 
And thou, too, mingle in the ring I 
Take to thy heart a new delight ; 
If not, make merry in despite 
That there is One who scorns thy power :^ 
But dance ! for under Jedborough Tower 
A Matron dwells who, though slie bears 
Tlie weight of more than seventy years, 
Lives in the light of youthful glee, 
And she will dance and sing with thee. 

Nay! start not at that Figure—there' 
Him who is rooted to his chair ! 
Look at him — look again ! for he 
Hath long been of thy family. 
With legs that move not, if they can, 
And useless arms, a trunk of man, 
He sits, and with a vacant eye ; 
A sight to make a stranger sigh ! 
Deaif, drooping, that is now his doom ; 
His world is in this single room : 
Is this a place for mirthful cheer .'' 
Can merry-making enter here ? 

The joyous Woman is the Mate 
Of him in that forlorn estate ! 
He breathes a subterraneous damp ; 
But bright as Vesper shines her lanap; 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 



261 



He is as mute as Jedborough Tower ; 
She jocund as it was of yore, 
With all its bravery on ; in times 
When all alive with merry chimes, 
Upon a sun-bright morn of May, 
It roused the Vale to holiday. 

I praise thee. Matron ! and thy due 
Is praise, heroic p-aise, and true ! 
Witli admiration I behold 
Thy gladness unsubdued and bold : 
Thy looks, thy gestures, all present 
Tiie picture of a life well spent: 
This do I see ; and something more; 
A strength unthought of heretofore ! 
Delighted am 1 for thy sake; 
And yet a higher joy partake : 
(hir Human-nature throws away 
Its second twilight, and looks gay ; 
A )and of promise and of pride 
Unfolding, wide as life is wide. 

Ah ! see her helpless Charge ! enclosed 
Within himself as seems, composed; 
To fe;u of loss, and hope of gain, 
The strite of happiness and pain, 
Utterly dead ! yet in the guise 
Of little infants, when their eyes 
Begin to follow to and fro 
The persons that before them go, 
He tracks her motions, quick or slow. 
Her buoyant spirit can prevail 
Wliere common cheerfulness would fail ; 
She strikes upon him witli the heat 
Of July suns ; he ieels it sweet ; 
An animal delight though dim ! 
'Tis all that now remains for him. 

The more 1 looked, I wondered more — 
And, while I scanned them o'er and o'er, 
Some inward trouble suddenly 
Lroke from tlie Matron's strong black eye- 
A remnant of un asy light, 
A Hash of something over-bright ! 
Nor long this mystery did detain 
My thoughts ; — she tokl in pensive strain 
That she had borne a heavy yoke. 
Keen stricken by a twofold stroke ; 
111 health of body ; and had i)ined 
beneath worse ailments of the mirid. 

So be it !— but let praise ascend 
To Him who is our Lord and friend I 
Wiio from thsease and suffering 
Hatii called for thee a second spring; 
Kepaid thee for that sore distress 
IJy no untimely " .«yousness ; 
Wiiicli makes of thine a blissful state; 
And cheers thy melancholy Mute I 



Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere- 

dale ! 
Say that we come, and come by this day's 

light ; 
Fly upon swiftest wing round field and 

height. 
But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale; 
There let a mystery of joy prevail, 
The kitten frolic, like a gamesome sprite,^ 
And Rover whine, as at a second sight 
Of near-approaching good that shall not 

fail ; 
And from that Infant's face let joy appear ; 
Yea, let our Mary's one companion child— 
Tliat hath I'.er six weeks' solitude beguiled 
With intimations manifold and dear. 
While we have wandered over wood and 

wild- 
Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer. 



XVII. 

THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. 

A TALE TOLD BY THE FIRE-SIUE, AFTER 
RETURNING TO THE VALE OF GRAS- 
MERE. 

Now we are tired of boisterous joy, 
Have lomped enough, my little Boy! 
Jane hangs her head upon my breast, 
And you shall bring your stool and rest; 
This corner is your own. 

There ! take your seat, and let me see 
That you can listen quietly : 
And, as 1 promised, I will tell 
'J'hat strange adventure, which befell 
A poor blind Highland Boy. 

A Highland boy !— why call him so ? 
Because, my Darlings, ye nuist know 
That, under hills which rise like tower 
Far higher hills than these of ours! 
He from his birth had lived. 

He ne'er had seen one earthly sight ; 
Tlie sun, the day ; the stars, the night; 
Or tree, or butterfly, or flower, 
Or fish in stream, or bird in tower. 
Or woman, man, or child, 

A nd yet he neither drooped nor j)ined, 
Nor had a melancholy mind ; 
I'or (iod took pity on the Boy, 
And was his friend ; and gave him joy 
01 which we nothing know. 



262 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 



His Mother, too, no doubt above 
Her other children him did love ; 
For, was she here, or was she there, 
She thought of him with constant care, 
And more than mother's love. 

And proud she was of heart, when clad 
In crimson stockings, tartan plaid, 
And bonnet with a feather gay, 
!l"o Kirk he on the Sabbath day 
Went hand in hand with her. 

A dog, too, had he ; not for need. 
But one to play witli and to feed ; 
Which would have led him, it bereft 
Of company or friends, and left 
Without a better guide. 

And then the bagpipes he could blow — 
And thus from house to house would go ; 
And all were pleased to hear and see, 
For none n>ade sweeter melody 
Than did the poor blind J>oy. 

Yet he had many a restless dream ; 
Both when he heard the eagles scream, 
And when he heard the torrents roar, 
And heard the water beat the shore. 
Near which their cottage stood 

Beside a lake their cottage stood, 
Not small like ours, a peaceful flood ; 
But one of mighty size, and strange ; 
That, rough or smooth, is full of change. 
And stirring in its bed. 

For to this lake, by night and day 
The great Sea-water finds its way 
Through long, long windings of the hills, 
And drinks up all the prjtty rills 
And rivers large and strong : 

Then hurries back the road it came — 
Returns, on errand still the same ; 
This did it when the earth was new ; 
And this for evermore will do, 
As long as earth shall last. 

And, with the coming of the tide, 
Come boats and ships that safely ride 
Between the woods and lofty rocks ; 
And to the shepherds with their flocks 
Bring tales of distant lands. 

And of those tales, whate'er they were, 
The blind Boy always had his share ; 
Whether of mighty towns, or vales 
With warmer suns and softer gales, 
Or wonders of the Deep. 



Yet more it pleased him, more it stirred, 
When from the water-side he heard 
The shouting, and the jolly cheers; 
The bustle of the mariners 
In stiUness or in storm. 

But what do his desires avail ? 
For He must never handle sail ; 
Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float 
In sailor's ship, or fisher's boat, 
Upon the rocking waves. 

His Mother often thought, and said. 
What sin would be upon her head 
If she should suffer this : " My Son, 
Wiiate'cr you df), leave this undone ; 
The danger is so great." 

Thus lived he by Loch-Leven's side 
Still sounding with the sounding tide. 
And heard the billows leap and dance, 
Without a shadow of mischance, 
Till he was ten years old. 

When one day (and now mark me well. 
Ye soon shall know how this befell) 
He in a vessel of his own. 
On the swift flood is hurrying down, 
Down to the mighty Sea, 

In such a vessel never more 
May human creature leave the shore f 
If tlws or that way he shoidd stir, 
Woe to the poor blind Mariner ! 
For death will be his doom. 

But say what bears him ? — Ye have seen 
The Indian's bow, his arrows keen, 
Rare beasts, and birds with plumage bright 
Gifts which, for wonder or delight, 
Are brought in ships from far. 

Such gifts had those seafaring men 
Spread round that haven in the glen ; 
Each hut, perchance, might have its own; 
And to tlie Boy they all were known — 
He knew and prized them all. 

The rarest was a Turtle-shell 
Which he, poor Child, had studied well ; 
A shell of ample size, and light 
As the pearly car of Amphitrite, 
That sportive dolphins drew. 

And, as a Coracle that braves 
On Vaga's breast the fretful waves, 
Tliis shell upon the deep would swim, 
And gayly lift its fearless brim 
Above the tossing surge. 



Ji 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 



203 



And this the little blind Boy knew ; 
And he a story strange yet true 
Had lieard, how in a shell like this 
An English Boy, O thought of bliss ! 
Had stoutly launched from shore ; 

Launched from the margin of a bay 
Among the Indian isles,''vvhere L.y 
His father's ship, and had sailed far - 
To join that gallant ship of war, 
In his delightful shell. 

Our Highland Boy oft visited 
The house that held this prize ; and, led 
By choice or chance, did tiiitiier conie 
One day when no one was at home, 
And found the door unbarred. 

While there he sate, alone and blind, 
That story flashed upon his mmd ; — 
A bold thought roused him, and he took 
The shell from out its secret nook. 
And bore it on his head. 

He launched his vessel,— and in pride 
Of spirit, from Loch-Leven's side. 
Stepped into it— his thoughts all tree 
As the light breezes that with glee 

Sang through the adventurer's hair 

A while he stood upon his feet; 
He felt the motion— took his seat ; 
Still better pleased as more and more 
The tide retreated from the sliore. 
And sucked, and sucked him in. 

And there he is in face of Heaven. 
How rapidly the Child is driven ! 
The fourth part of a mile, I ween, 
He thus had gone, ere he was seen 

By any human eye. 

But when he was first seen, oh me, 
What shrieking and what misery i 
For many saw ; among the rest 
His Mother, she who loved him best, 
She saw her poor blind Boy. 

But for the child, the sightless Boy, 
It is the triumph of his joy ! 
The bravest traveller in balloon, 
Mounting as if to reach the m- on, 
Was never half so blessed. 

And let him, let him go his way, 
Alone, and innocent, and gay ! 
For, if good Angels love to wait 
On the forlorn unfortunate, 

This Child will take no harm. 



But now the passionate lament. 
Which from the crowd on shore was sent, 
The cries which broke from old and younr 
In Gaelic, or the English tongue, 
Are stifled— all is still. 

And quickly with a silent crew 
A boat is ready to pursue : 
And from the shore their course they take, 
And swiftly down the running lake 
They follow the blind Boy. 

But soon they move with softer pace. 
So have ye seen the fowler chase 
On Grasmere's clear unruffled breast 
A youngling of the wild-duck's nest 
With deftly-lifted oar ; 

Or as the wily sailors crept 
To seize (while on the Deep it slept) 
The hapless creature which did dwell 
Erewhile within the dancing shell. 
They steal upon their prey. 

With sound the least that can be made, 
They follow, more and more afraid. 
More cautious as they draw more near ; 
But in his darkness he can hear. 
And guesses their intent. 

" Lei-gha—Lei-gha "—he then cried out, 
" Lei-gha—Lei-gha "—with eager shout ; 
Thus did he cry, and thus did pray, 
And what he meant was, " Keep away, 
And leave me to myself ! " 

Alas ! and when he felt their hands 

You've often heard of magic wands, 
That with a motion overthrow 
A palace of the proudest show. 
Or melt it into air ; 

So all his dreams — that inward light 
With which his soul had shone so bright- 
All vanished ;— 'twas a heartfelt cross" 
To him, a heavy, bitter loss. 
As he had ever known. 

But hark ! a gratulating voice, 
With which the very hills rejoice : 
'Tis from tlve crowd, who trembling 
Have watched the event, and now can see 
That he is safe at last. 

And then, when he was brought to land. 
Full sure they were a hajipy band, 
Which gathering round, did on the banks 
Of that great Water give God thanks, 
And welcomed the poor Child. 



»64 



MEMORIAL S OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 



And in the general joy of heart 
The blind Boy s little dog took part ; 
He leapt about, and oft did kiss 
His master's hands in sign of bliss, 
With sound like lamentation. 

But most of all, liis Mother dear, 
She who hnd fainted with her fear, 
Rejoiced when waking she espies 
The Child ; when she can trust her eyes, 
And touches the blind Doy. 

She led him home, and wept amain, 
Wlicn lie was in tiie house again : 
Tears (lowed in torrents from her eyes, 
She kissed liim — how could she chastise ? 
She was too happy far. 

Thus, after he had fondly braved 

The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved ; 



And, though his fancies had been wild, 
Vet lie was pleased and reconciled 
To live in peace on shore. 

And in the lonely Highland dell 
Still do they keep the '1 urtJe shell ; 
And long the story will repeat 
Of the blind Boy's adventurous feat, 
And how he was preserved. 

Note. — It is recorded in Dampiev's Voyatres 
that a boy, son of the captain of a Man-nf-War 
seated himself in a Turtle-shell, and floated in 
it from the shore to his f^^ther's ship, which lay 
at anchor at the distance of half a mile. In 
deference to the opinion of a Friend, I liave 
substituted such a shell for the less elegant ves- 
sel in whicii my blind Voyaj^er did actually en- 
trust himself to the dangerous current of Loch 
Leven, as was related to me by an eye-witne»«. 



/ 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 

1814. 



I. 

SUGGESTED BY A BEAUTIFUL RUIN UPON 
ONE OF THE ISLANDS OF LOCH LOMONU, 
A PLACE CHOSEN FOR THE RETREAT OF 
A SOLITARY INDIVIUUAL, FROM WHOM 
THIS HABITATION ACQUIRED THE 
NAME OF 

THE BROWNIE'S CELL. 



To barren heatli, bleak Moor, and quaking 

fen, 
Or depth of labyrinthine glen ; 
Or into trackless forest set 
With trees, wliose lofty umbrage rret ; 
World-wearied Men withdrew of yore : 
( Penance their trust, and prayer their store ;) 
And in the wilderness were bound 
To such apartments as they found ; 
Or witli a new ambition raised ; 
That God might suitably be praised. 



High lodged the IVayrwr, like a bird of 

prey ; 
Or where broad waters round him lay : 
But this wild Ruin is no ghost 
Of his devices — buried, lost ! 
Within this little lonely isle 
There stood a consecrated Pile ; 
Where tapers burned, and mass was sung. 
For them whose timid Spirits clung 
To mortal succor, though the tomb 
Had fixed, forever fixed, their doom! 



Upon those servants of another world 
When maddening power her bolts 

hurled. 
Their habitation shook ; — it fell. 
And perished, save one narrow cell ; 
Whither at length, a Wretch retired, 
Who neither grovelled nor aspired : 
He, struggling in the net of pride. 
The future scorned, the past defied ; 
Still tempering, from the unguilty forgf 
Oi vain conceit, an iron scourge I 



had 



IV. 

Proud Remnant was he of a fearless Race, 
Who stood and flourished face to lace 
With their perennial hills ; — Inil Crime, 
Hastening the stern decrees of Tune, 
Brought low a Power, which from its home 
Burst, when repose grew wearisome ; 
And, taking impulse from the sword, 
And, mocking its own plighted word, 
Had found, in ravage widely dealt, 
Its warfare's bourn, its travel's belt! 

V. 

All, all were dispossessed, save him whose 

smile 
Shot lightning through this lonely Isle ! 
No right had lie but what he made 
To this small spot, his leafy shade; 
But the ground lay within that ring 
To which he only dared to cling ; 
Renouncing here, as worse than dead, 
The craven few who bowed the head 
Beneath the change ; who heard a claim 
How loud ! yet lived in peace with shame. 

VI. 

From year to year this shaggy Mortal went 
(So seemed it) down a strange descent : 
Till they who saw his outward frame 
Fixed on him an unhallowed name; 
Him, free from all malicious taint. 
And guiding, like the Patmos Saint, 
A pen unwearied — to indite. 
In his lone Isle, the dreams of night ; 
Impassioned dreams, that strove to span 
The faded glories of his Clan ! 

VII. 

Suns that through blood their western h:ir 
bor sought. 

And stars that in their courses fought •. 

Towers rent, winds combating with wood.. 

Lands deluged by unbridled floods; 

And beast and bird that from the spell 
I Of sleep took import terrible ; — 
I These types mysterious (if the show 

Of battle and the routed foe 

Had failed) would furnish an array 

Of matter for the dawning day I 

(265) 



266 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



How disappeared He? — ask the newt and 

toad, 
Inheritors of his abode ; 
The otter crouching undisturbed, 
In her dank cleft ; — but be thou curbed, 
O froward Fancy ! 'mid a scene 
Of asfject winning and serene ; 
For those offensive creatures shun 
The inquisition of the sun ! 
And in this region flowers delight, 
And all is lovely to the sight. 

IX. 

Spring finds not here a melancholy breast, 
When she applies her annual test 
To dead and living ; wlien her breath 
Quickens, as now, the withered heath ; — 
Nor flaunting Summer — when he throws 
His soul into the briar-rose ; 
Or calls the lily from her sleep 
Prolonged beneath the bordering deep ; 
Nor Autumn, when the viewless wren 
Is warbling near the Brownie's Den. 



Wild Relique ! beauteous as the chosen spot 
In Nysa's isle, the embellished grot ; 
Whither, by caie of Libyan Jove, 
(High Servant of paternal Love) 
Young Bacchus was conveyed — to lie 
Safe from his step-dame Rhea's eye ; 
Where bud, and bloom, and fruitage, glowed, 
Close-crowding round the infant-god ; 
All colors, — and the liveliest streak 
A foil to his celestial cheek ! 



COMPOSED AT CORA LINN, 

IN SIGHT OF Wallace's tower. 

" How Wallace {ought for Scotland, left the 

name 
Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower, 
All over iiis dear Country ; left tiie deeds 
Of Wallace, like a family of ghosts. 
To people the steep rocks and river banks. 
Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul 
Of independence and stern liberty." MS. 

Lord of the vale ! astounding Flood ; 
The dullest leaf in this thick wood 
Quakes — conscious of thy power ; 
The caves reply with hollow moan ; 
And vibrates, to its central stone, 
Yon time-cemented Tower 1 



And yet how fair the rural scene ! 
For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been 
Beneficent as strong ; 
Pleased in refreshing dews to steep 
The little trembling flowers that peep 
Thy shelving rocks among. 

Hence all who love their country, love 
To look on thee — delight to rove 
Where they thy voice can hear ; 
And, to the patriot-warrior's Shade, 
Lord of the vale ! to Heroes laid 
In dust, that voice is dear 1 

Along thy banks, at dead of night 
Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight ; 
Or stands, in warlike vest. 
Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam, 
A Champion worthy of the stream, 
Yon gray tower's living crest ! 

But clouds and envious darkness hide 
A form not doubtfully descried : — 
Their transient mission o'er, 
O say to what blind region flee 
These Shapes of awful phantasy .'' 
To what untrodden shore .'' 

Less than divine command they spurn ; 
But this we from the mountains learn, 
.And this the valleys show ; 
That never will they deign to hold 
Communion where the heart is cold 
To human weal and woe. 

The man of abject soul in vain 
Shall walk the Marathonian plain ; 
Or thrid the shadowy gloom 
That still invests the guardian Pass 
Where stood, sublime, Leonidas 
Devoted to the tomb. 

And let no Slave his head incline, 
Or kneel, before the votive shrine 
By Uri's lake, where Tell 
Leapt, from his storm-vext boat, to land 
Heaven's Instrument, for by his hand 
That day the Tyrant fell. 



III. 
EFFUSION, 

IN THE PLEASURE-GROUND ON THB 
BANKS OK THE BRAN, NEAR DUN 
KELD. 

" Tlie waterf.ill, by a loud ronrifijj, warned 
us when we must expect it. We were first, 
liuwever, conducted into a small apartment, 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



267 



where the Gardener desired us to look at a 
picture of Ossian, wliich, wliile he was telling 
the history of tiie youug Artt^t who executed 
the work, disappeared, parting in the middle- 
fly ng asunder as by the toiicii of magic — and 
!o ! we are at the entrance of a splendid apart- 
:iient, which was almost dizzy and alive with 
waterfails, that tumbled in ail directions, the 
^reat cascade, opposite the window which faced 
us, being reflected in innumerable mirrors upon 
the cei iiig and against the w^W's,.'"— Extract 
from the Journal of my Fellozu- Traveller. 

Wh\t He — who, mid the kindred throng 

Oi Hcioes that inspired his song, 

Doth yet frequent the liill of storms, 

The stars dim-twinkling through their forms I 

What ! Ossian here — a painted Thrall, 

Mute fixture on a stuccoed wall ; 

To serve — an unsuspected screen 

For sliovv tliat must not yet be seen ; 

And, when the moment comes, to part 

And vanish by mysterious art ; 

Head, harp, and body, spl't asunder, 

For ingress to a world of wonder ; 

A gay saloon, with waters dancing 

Upon tlie sight wherever glancing ; 

One loud cascade in front, and lo ! 

A thousand like it, white as snow^ 

Streams on the walls, and torrent-foam 

As active round the hollow dome. 

Illusive cataracts ! of their terrors 

Not stripped, nor voiceless in the mirrors. 

That catch the pageant from the flood 

Thundering adown a rocky wood. 

What pains to dazzle and confound ! 

What strife of color, s.iape and sound 

In this quaint medley, that might seem 

Devised out of a sick man's dream ! 

Strange scene; fantastic and uneasy 

As ever made a maniac dizzy. 

When disenchanted from the mood 

That loves on sullen thoughts to brood ! 

O Nature — in thy changeful visions. 
Through all thy most abrupt transitions 
Smooth, graceful, tender, or sublime — 
Ever averse to pantomime, 
Thee neither do they know nor us 
Thy servants, who can trifle thus ; 
Else verily the sober powers 
Of rock that frowns, and stream that roars, 
Exalted by congenial sway 
Of Spirits, and the undying Lay. 
And Names that moulder not away. 
Had wakened some redeeming thought 
More worthy of this favored Spot ; 
Recalled some feeling — to set free 
The Bard from sucli indignity ! 



* The Effigies of a valiant Wight 
I once beheld, a Templar Knight ; 
Not prostrate, not like those that rest 
On tombs, with palms together prest, 
But sculptured out of living stone, 
And standing upright and alone. 
Both hands with rival energy 
Employed in setting his sword free 
From its dull sheath — stern sentinel 
Intend to guard St. Robert's cell , 
As if with memory of the affray 
Far distant, when, as legends say. 
The Monks of Fountain's thronged to force 
From its dear home the Hermit's corse, 
That in their keeping it might lie. 
To crown their abbey's sanctity. 
So had they rushed into the grot 
Of sense despised, a world forgot. 
And torn him from his loved retreat, 
Where altar-stone and rock-hewn seat 
Still hint that quiet best is found. 
Even by the Living, under ground ; 
But a bold Knight^ the selfish aim 
Defeating, put the Monks to shame. 
There where you see his Image stand 
Bare to the sky, with threatening brand 
Which lingering NiD is proud to show 
Reflected in the pool belowr. 

Thus, like the men of earliest days, 
Our sires set forth their grateful praise , 
Uncouth the workmanship, and rude ! 
But, nursed in mountain solitude, 
Might some aspiring artist dare 
To seize whate'er, through misty air, 
A ghost, by glimpses, may present 
Of imitable lineament, 
And give the phantom an array 
That less should scorn the abandoned clay ; 
Then let him hew with patient stroke 
An Ossian out of mural rock. 
And leave the figurative Man— 
Upon thy margin, roaring Bran ! — 
Fixed, like the" Templar of the steep, 
An everlasting watch to keep ; 
With local sanctities in trust, 
M(Me precious than a hermit's dust ; 
And virtues through the mass infused. 
Which old idolatry abused. 

What though the Granite would deny 
All fervor to the sightless eye ; 
And touch from rising suns in vain 
Solicit a Memnonian strain ; 



* On the banks of the River Nid, neai 
Knarcsborough. 



268 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Yet, in some fit of anger sharp, 

Tlie wind niigiit force tiie deep-grooved harp 

To utter melancholy moans 

Not unconnected with the tones 

Of soul-sick flesh and weary bones ; 

While grove and river notes would lend, 

Less deeply sad, with these to blend ! 

Vain pleasures of luxurious life. 
Forever with yourselves at strife ; 
Through town and country both deranged 
Hy affectations interchanged. 
And all the perishable gauds 
That heaven-deserted man applauds ; 
When will your hapless pations learn 
To watcii and jwndcr— to discern 
The freshness, the everlasting youth, 
Of admiration sprung from truth ; 
From beauty infinitely growing 
Upon a mind with love o'erHowing — 
To sound the depths of every Art 
That seeks its wisdom through the heart ? 

Thus (where the intrusive Pile, ill-graced 
With baubles of theatric taste, 
O'erlooks the torrent breathing showers 
On motley bands of alien flowers 
In stiff confusion set or sown, 
Till Nature cannot find her own, 
Or keep a remnant of the sod 
W^liich Caledonian Heroes trod) 
1 mused ; and, thirsting for redress, 
Recoiled into the wilderness. 



YARROW VISITED, 

SEPTEMBER, 1814. 

(Seepage 259). 

And is this — Yarrow ? — This the Stream 

Of which my fancy cherished, 

So faithfully, a waking dream ? 

An image that hath perished ! 

O that some Minstrel's harp were near, 

To utter notes of gladness, 

And chase this silence from the air. 

That fills my heart with sadness I 

Yet why ? — a silvery current flows 

With uncontrolled n.eanderings , 

Nor have these eyes by greener hills 

Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 

And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake 

Is visibly delighted j 



For not a feature of those hills 
Is in the mirror slighted. 

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, 

Save where that pearly whiteness 

is round the rising sun d.ffused, 

A tender hazy brightness ; 

Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 

All profitless dejection : 

Though not unwilling here to admit 

A pensive recollection. 

Where was it that the famous Flower 

Oi Yarrow Vale lay bleeding .'' 

His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 

Or. which the herd is feeding ; 

And haply from this crystal pool, 

Now peaceful as the morning, 

The Water-wraith ascended thrice — 

And gave his doleful warning. 

Delicious is the Lay that sings 
The haunts of happy Lovers, 
The path that leads them to the grove, 
The leafy grove that covers ; 
And Pity sanctifies the Verse 
That paints, by strength of sorrow, 
Tlie unconquerable strength of love ; 
I5ear witness, rueful Yarrow I 

r?ut thou, that didst appear so fair 

'J"o fond imagination, 

Dost rival in the light of day 

Her delicate creation : 

Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 

A softness still and holy ; 

The grace of forest charms decayed, 

And pastoral melancholy. 

That region left, the vale unfolds 

Rich groves of lofty stature, 

With Yarrow winding through the pomp 

Of cultivated nature ; 

And, rising from those lofty groves. 

Behold a Ruin hoary ! 

The shattered front of Newark's Towers, 

Renowned in Border story. 

Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom^ 

For sportive youth to stray in ! 

For manhood to enjoy his strength ; 

And age to wear away in ! 

Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 

A covert for protection 

Of tender thoughts, that nestle there — 

Tlie brood of chaste affection. 



I 



POEMS OF THE /MA GIN AT/ON. 



iOq 



How sweet on this autumnal (lay, 

The wild-wood fruits to gather, 

And nn my True-love's forehead plant 

A crest of blooming heather ! 

And what if I enwreathed my own ! 

'Twcre no offence to reason ; 

The sober hills thus deck their brows 

To meet the wintry season. 

I see — but not by sight alone, 
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; 
A ray of fancy still survives — 
Ker sunshine plays upon thee ! 



Thy ever-youthful waters keep 

A co'.irse of lively pleasure ; 

And gladsome notes n)y hps can breathy 

Accordant to the measure. 

The vapors linger round the Heights, 
They melt, and soon must vanislf; 
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine — 
Sad tliought, which I would banish, 
But that I know, where'er I go, 
Thy genuine image. Yarrow ! 
Will dwell with me— to licigliten joy, 
And cheer my mind in sunow. 



pop:ms dedicated to national indepen- 
dence AND liberty. 



PART 



COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR 
CALAIS, AUGUST, l8o2. 

Fair Star of evening. Splendor of the west> 
Star of my Country ! — on the horizon's 

brink 
Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to 

sink 
On England's bosom ; yet well pleased to 

rest, 
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest 
Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think, 
Should'st be my Country's emblem ; and 

should'st wink, 
Bright Star ! with laughter on her banners, 

drest 
In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky 

spot 
Beneath thee, that is England ; there she 

lies. 
Blessings be on you both ! one hope, one 

lot,^ 
One life, one glory ! — I, with many a fear ' 
For mv dear Country, many heartfelt sighs. 
Among men who do not love her, linger 

here. 



CALAIS, AUGUST, l8o2. 

Is it a reed that's shaken by the wind, 
Or what is it that ye go forth to see .? 
Lords, lawyers, statesmen, squires of low 

degree, 
Men known, and men unknown, sick, lame, 

and blind, 
Post foi ward all, like creatures of one kind, 
With first-fruit offerings crowd to bend the 

knee 
In France, before the new-bun Majesty. 
'Tis ever thus. Ye men of prostrate mind, 
A seemly reverence may be paid to power ; 
But that's a loyal virtue, never sown 
In haste, nor springing with a transient 

shower : 
When truth, when sense, when liberty were 

flown. 
What hardship had it been to wait an hour ? 
Shame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery 

prone ! 



COMPOSED NEAR CALAIS, ON THE ROAD 
LEADING TO ARDRES, AUGUST 7, l8o2. 

Jones ! as from Calais southward you and I 
Went pacing side by side, this iiublic Wa/ 



270 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Streamed with the pomp of a too-credulous 

day,* 
When faith was pledged to new-born 

Liberty : 
A homeless sound of joy was in the sky : 
From hour to hour the antiquated Earth 
Beat like the heart of Man : songs, garlands, 

mirth, 
Banners, and happy faces, far and nigh ! 
And now, sole register that these things 

were. 
Two solitary greetings have I heard, 
' Good morrow^ Ciiize7t ' " a hollow word, 
As if a dead man spake it ! Yet despair 
Touches me not, though pensive as a bird 
Whose vernal coverts winter hath laid bare. 

IV. 

1801. 
I GRIEVED for Bonaparte, with a vain 
And an unthinkLcg grief ! The tenderest 

mood 
Of that Man's mind — what can it be ? what 

food 
Fed his first hopes ? what knowledge could 

he gain ? 
'Tis not in battles that from youth we train 
The Governor who must be wise and good, 
And temper with the sternness of the brain 
Tliougiits motherly, and meek as woman- 
hood. 
Wisilom doth live with children round her 

knees •■ 
Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk 
Man holds with week-day man in the hourly 

walk 
Of the mind's business ; these are the de- 
grees 
By which true Sway doth mount ; this is 

the stalk 
True Power doth grow on ; and b.er rights 
are these. 



CALAIS, AUGUST 15, l8o2. 

Festivals have I seen that were not 

names : 
This is young Bonajiarte's natal day, 
And his is henceforth an established sway — 
Consul for life. With worship France pro 

claims 
Her approbation, and with pomj^s and 

games. 
Heaven grant that other Cities may be gay ! 



14th July, 1790. 



Calais is not : and I have bent my way 
To the sea-coast, noting that each mai 

frames 
His business as he likes. Far other show 
My youth liere witnessed, in a prouder time ; 
The senselessness of Joy was then sublime I 
Happy is he, who, caring not for Pope, 
Consul, or King, can sound himself to know 
The destiny of Man, and live in hope. 

VI. 

ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN 
REPUBLIC. 

Once did She hold the gorgeous east in 

fee ; 
And was the safeguard of the west : the 

worth 
Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 
Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. 
She was a maiden City, bright and free ; 
No guile seduced, no force could violate ; 
And, when she took unto herself a Mate, 
She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 
And what if she had seen those giories fade, 
Those titles vanish, and that strength 

decay ; 
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 
When her long life hath reached its final 

day 
Men are we, and must grieve when even the 

Shade 
Of that which once was great is passed 

away. 

VII. 
THE KING OF SWEDEN. 

The Voice of song from distant lands shall 

call 
To that great King ; shall hail the crowned 

Youth 
Who, taking counsel of unbending Truth, 
By one example hath set forth to all 
How they with dignity may stand ; or fall. 
If fall they must. Now, whither doth it 

tend? 
And what to him and his shall be the end .■* 
That thought is one which neither can 

ajipal 
Nor cheer him ; for the illustrious S wede 

hath done 
The thing which ought to be ; is raised 

above 
^All con.sequences ; work he hath begun 
Of fortitude, and piety, and love. 
Which all his gloriiuis ancestors apjirove :) 
The heroes bless him, him their rightful 

son. 



POEAfS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



271 



VIII. 
TO TOUSSAINT l'OUVERTURE. 

ToussAiNT, the most unhappy man of 

men ! 
Whether the whistling Rustic tend his 

plough 
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now 
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless 

den ; — 
O miserable Chieftain ! where and when 
Wilt thou Hnd patience? Yet die not; do 

thou 
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow : 
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again. 
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left 

behind 
Powers that will work for thee ; air, earth, 

and skies ; 
There's not a breathing of the common 

wind 
That will forget thee ; thou hast great 

allies ; 
Thy friends are exultations, agonies, 
And love, and man's unconquerable mind, 

* IX. 

SEPTEMBER I, lSo2, 
Among the capricious acts of tyranny that dis- 
graced those times, was the chasing of ail 
Negroes from France by decree df the gov- 
ernment : we had a Fellow-passenger who 
was one of the expelled. 

We had a female Passenger who came 
From Calais wth us, spotless in array, — 
A white-robed Negro, like a lady gay. 
Yet downcast as a woman feanng blame; 
Meek, destitute, as seemed, of hope or aim 
She sate, from notice turning not away. 
But on all proffered .ntercoiirse cUd lay 
A weight of languid speech, or to the same 
No sign of answer made by word or face : 
Yet still her eyes retained their tropic fire. 
That, burnmg independent of the mind. 
Joined with the lustre of her rich attire 
To mock the Outcast — O ye Heavens, Le 

kind ! 
And feel, thou Earth, for this afflicted 

Race! 

X. 

COMPOSED IN THE VALLEY NEAR DOVER, 

ON THE DAY OK LANDING. 

Here, on our native soil, we breathe once 

more. 
The cock that crowr, the smoke that c r's, 

that sound 



Of bells ; — those boys who in yon meadow- 
ground 
In white-sleeved shirts are playing ; and the 

roar 
Of the waves breaking on the chalky 

shore ; — 
All, all are English. Oft have I looked 

round 
With joy in Kent's green vales ; but never 

found 
Myself so satisfied in heart before. 
Europe is yet in bonds ; but let that pass. 
Thought for another moment. Thou art 

free, 
My Country ! and 'tis joy enough and pride 
For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the 

grass 
Of England once again, and hear and see, 
With such a dear Companion at my side. 



SEPTEMDER, iS02. NEAR DOVER. 

Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood ; 
And saw, while sea was calm and air was 

clear. 
The coast of France — the coast of France 

how near ! 
Drawn almost into frightful neighborhood. 
I shrunk ; for verily the barrier flood 
Was like a lake, or riv.r bright and fair, 
A span of waters ; yet what power is there ! 
What mightiness for evil and for good I 
Even so doth God protect us if we be 
Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and 

waters roll. 
Strength to the brave, and Power, and 

Deity ; 
Yet in themselves are nothing ! One 

decree 
Spake laws to them^ and said that by tht 

soul 
Only, the Nations shall be great and free 



THOUGHT OF A ERITO.V ON THE SL'RJU 
GATION OF SWITZERLAND. 

Two Voices are there ; one is of the sea, 
One of the mountains; each a miglitj 

Voice . 
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice. 
They were thy chosen music, Liberty ! 
There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee 
Thou fought'stagamst him ; but hast vainly 

striven ■ 
Then from thy Alpine holds at length Art 

driven, 



272 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATfON. 



Where not a torrent murnmrs heard by 

thee. 
Of one deep bliss thine car hath born 

bereft : 
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is 

left; 
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would 

it be 
That Mountain floods should thunder as 

before, 
And Ocean bellow f'oni his rocky shore. 
And neither awful voice be heard by thee ! 

XIII. 
WRITTEN IN LONDON, SKPTEMRER, lSo2. 

O Friend ! I know not which way 1 must 

look 
For comfort, bcini;, as I am, upi)rest, 
To think that now our life is only drcst 
For show ; mean handy work of craftsman, 

cook, 
Or groom ! — We must run glittering like a 

brook 
In the o[)en sunshine, or we are unblest : 
The wealthiest man among us is the best : 
No grandeur now in nature or in book 
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, 
This is idolatry ; and these we adore:" 
Plain livmg and higii tliinking are no more: 
The homely bcautv of tlie good old cause 
Is gone ! our peacf, our fearful innocence, 
And pure religion breathmg household 

laws. 

XIV. 

LONDON, 1802. 

Milton ! thou should'st bo living at this 

hour ■. 
England hath need of thee : she is a fen 
Of stagnant waters ; altar, sword, and pen, 
Fireside, the heroic wealth of liall and 

bower. 
Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
Of inward haii])iness. We are sclfihh men ; 
Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; 
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, 

power. 
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt a] -art : 
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like 

the sea ; 
Pure as the naked heavens, maj-'h>tic, free. 
So didst thou travel on life's common way, 
In cheerful godliness; and yet tliy heart 
The lowhest duties on hcrsell did lay. 



Great men have been among ns ; hands 

that penned 
y\nd tongues that uttered wisdom— better 

none : 
'i'he later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington, 
Young Vane, and others who called Milton 

friend. 
The-e moralists could act and comprehend : 
Tiiey knew how genuine glory was just on; 
Taught us how rightfully a nation shone 
In s])lendor : what strength was that would 

not bend 
But in magnanimous meekness. France, 

'tis strange. 
Hath brought forth no such souls as we 

had then. 
Perpetual emptiness I unceasing change! 
No single volume paramount, no code, 
No master spirit, no determined road : 
But equally a want of books and men ! 



It is not to be thought of that the Flood 
Of British freedom, which, to the open sm^ 
Of the woild's praise, from dark antuiuity 
Hath flowed, "with pomp of waters, un- 

withstood," 
Koused though it be full often to a mood 
Winch spurns the check of salutary bands, 
'ihat this most famous Stream in bogs and 

sanils 
Should perish ; and to evil and to good 
Be lost forever. In our halls is hung 
Armory of the invincible Knights of old; 
We must be free or die, who speak the 

tongue 
That Shakspeare spake; the faith and 

morals hold 
Which Milton held. — In everything we are 

sprung 
Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold. 



When I have borne in memory what has 
tamed 

Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts de- 
part 

When men change swords for ledgers, and 
desert 

The student's bower for gold, some fears 
unnamed 

I had, my Cor.ntry! — am I to be blamed ? 

Now, when I tliink of thee, and what thou 
art, 

Verily, in the bottom of my heart, 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



273 



Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 

For dearly must we prize tliec; we who 

find 
In thee a bulwark for tlie cause of men ; 
And 1 by my affection was bei^uiled : 
\VIiat wonder if a Poet now and then. 
Among the many movements of his mind, 
Felt for thee as a lover or a child 1 

XVIII. 
OCTOBER, 1S03, 

One might believe that natural miseries 
Had blasted France, and made of it a land 
Unlit for men ; and that in owe great band 
Her sons were bursting fortii, to dwell at 

ease. 
But "tis a chosen soil, where sun and breeze 
Slied gentle favors : rural works arc there, 
And ordinary business without care; 
JSpot rich in all thmgs that can soothe and 

jiloase ! 
How piteous then that there should be such 

dearth 
Of knowledge ; that whole myriads shoul 

unite 
To work against themselves such fell d. 

spite : 
Should come in plirensy and in drunken 

mirth, 
Impatient to put out the only light 
Of Liberty tliat yet remains on earth ! 



There is a bondage worse, far worse, to 

bear 
Than his who breathes, by roof, and floor, 

and wall, 
Pent in, a Tyrant's solitary Thrall : 
'Tis his who walks about in the open air, 
One of a Nation who, henceforth, must 

wear 
Their fetters in their souls. For who could 

be, 
Who, even the best, in such condition, free 
From self-reproach, reproach that he must 

share 
With Human nature ? Never be it ours 
To see the sun how brightly it will shine, 
And know that noble feelings, manly 

powers, 
Instead of gathering strength, must droop 

and pine ; 
And earth with all her pleasant fruits and 

(lowers 
Fade, and participate in man's decline. 



ocTOi;i-.K, 1S03. 

These times strike monied worldlings will-. 

dismay ; 
Y.\ql\\ ricli men, brave by nature, taint the 

air 
With words of api)rehension and despair : 
While tens of thou.sands, thinking on the 

affray. 
Men unto whom suft'.cicnt f( r the day 
And minds not stintetl ( r unfilled are 

given, 
Sound, healthy, children of the God of 

heaven. 
Are cheerful as the rising sun in May. 
What do we gather hence but firmer faith 
That every gift of noble origin 
Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual 

breath ; 
That virtue and the faculties within 
Are vital, — and that riches are akin 
To fear, to change, to cowardice, and 

deatli .'' 



...N(^LANi)! the time is come when thou 

should'st wean 
Thy heart from its emasculating food ; 
Tiie truth should now be better understood • 
Old things iiave been unsettled ; we have 

seen 
Fair seed-time, better harvest might iiave 

been 
But for thy trespasses ; and, at this day, 
If for Greece, Egypt, India, Africa, 
Aught good were destined, thou would'st 

step between. 
England 1 all nations in this charge agree: 
But worse, more ignorant in love and hate. 
Far — far more abject, is thine Enemy : 
Therefore the wise pray for thee, tliough the 

freight 
Of thy offences be a heavy weight : 
Oh grief that Earth's best hopes rest all 

with Thee ! 

XXII. 

OCTOIiER, 1803. 

When, lOoking on the present 'ace of 

things, 
I 1 see one Man, of men the meanest too ! 
Raised up to sway the world, to do, undo. 
With mighty Nations for his underlings. 
The great events with which old story hc0 



^74 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATIOIV. 



Seen vain and hollow ; I find nothing great : 
Nothing is left which I can venerate ; 
So that a doubt almost witliin ine springs 
Of Providence, such emptiness at length 
Seems at the heart of all things. But, 

great God ! 
I measure back tlie steps which I have 

trod : 
And tremble, seeing whence proceeds the 

strength 
Of such poor Instruments, with thoughts 

sublime 
I tremble at the sorrow of the time. 

XXIII. 
ro THE MEN OF KENT. OCTOBER. 1S03. 

Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent, 

Ve children of a Soil that doth advance 

Her haugiity brow agamst the coast of 
France, 

Mow is tlie time to prove your hardiment ! 

To France be words of invitation sent J 

They from their fields can see the counte- 
nance 

Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering 
lance, 

And hear you shouting forth your brave in- 
tent. 

Left single, in bold parley, ye, of yore. 

Did from tlie Norman win a gallant wieath ; 

Confirmed the charters that were yours be- 
fore ;— 

No parleying now ! In Drilain is one 
breath ; 

We all are with you now from shore to 
shore : — 

Ye men of Kent, 'tis victory or death ! 

XXIV. 

What if our numbers barely could defy 
The arithmetic of babes, must foreign 

iiordes, 
Slaves, vile as ever were befooled by words, 
Striking through English breasts the anar- 
chy 
Of Terror, bear us to the ground, and tie 
Our hands behind our backs with felon 

cords ? 
Yields everything to discipline of swords ? 
Is man as good as man, none low, none 

high ?— 
Nor discipline nor valor can withstand 
The shock, nor quell the inevitable rout, 
When in some great extremity breaks out 
A people, on their own beloved Land 
Risen. like one man, to combat in the sight 
Of a just God for liberty and right. 



XXV. 

LINES ON THE EXPECTED INVASION. 

1803. 

Come ye — who, if (which Heaven avert!) 

the Land 
Were witli herself at strife, would take your 

stand. 
Like gallant Falkland, by the Monarch's 

side, 
And, like Montrose, make Loyalty your 

pride — 
Come ye — who, not less zealous, might dis- 
play 
Ijanners at enmity with regal sway, 
And, like the Lyms and Miltons of that 

day. 
Think that a State would live in sounde» 

health 
If Kingship bowed its head to Common- 
wealth — 
Ye too — whom no discreditable fear 
Would keep, perhaps with many a fruitless 

tear. 
Uncertain what to choose and how to steer— 
And ye — who might mistake for sober sense 
And wise reserve the plea of indolence — 
Come ye — whate'er your creed — O waken 

all, 
Whate'er your temper, at your Country's 

call ; 
Resolving (this a free-Lorn Nation can) 
To have one Soul, and perish to a man. 
Or save this honored Land from every Lord 
But British reason and the British sword. 

XXVI. 

ANTICIPATION. OCTOTER, 1S03. ^ 

Shout, for a mighty Victory is won ! 

On British ground the Invaders are laid 

low ; 
The breath of Heaven has drifted tliem like 

snow, 
And left them lying in tiie silent sun. 
Never to rise again ! — the work is done. 
Come forth, ye old men, now in peaceful 

show 
And greet your sons ! drums beat and trum 

pets blow ! 
Make merry, wives* ve little children, stun 
Your grandamc's ears wilii j>leasure of your 

noise ! 
Clap, infants, clap your hands ! Divine 

must be 
That triumph, when the very worst, tbo 

pain 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



275 



And even the prospect of our brethren 
hlain, 

Hath somethnig in it which the heart en- 
joys :— 

In glory will they sleep and endless sanctity. 



NOVEMBER, 1806. 

Another year! — another deadly blow. 
Another m ghty Empire overtlirown ! 
And We are left, or shall be left, alone; 
The last that dare to struggle with the Foe. 
'Tis well ! from this day forward we shall 

know 
That in ourselves our safety must be sought : 
Tliat by our own right har.ds it must be 

wrought ; 
That we must stand unpropped, or be laid 

low. 
O dastard whom such foretaste doth not 

cheer ! 
We shall exult, if they who rule the land 
l?e men who hold its many blessings dear, 
Wise, upright, valiant ; not a servile "band. 
Who are to judge of danger which they 

fear 
And honor which tlicv do not understand. 



1. 

Who rises on the banks of Seine, 
And binds her temples with the civic 

wreath .? 
What joy to read the promise of her mien ! 
How sweet to rest her wide-spread wings 
bt ncath ! 

But they are ever playing, 
And twinkling m the light, 
And, if a breeze be straying, 
That breeze she will invite ; 
And stands on tiptoe, conscious she is fair. 
And calls a look of love into her face. 
And spreads her arms, as if the general air 
Alone could satii^fy her wide embrace. 
—Melt, Principalities, before her melt ! 
Her love ye hailed— her wrath have felt ! 
But She through many a change of form 

hath gone. 
And stands amidst you now an arm^d crea- 
ture, 
Whose panoply is not a thing put on. 
But the live scales oi a portentous nature ; 



That, having forced its way from birth to 

birth, 
Stalkb round — abhorred by Heaven a terror 

to the Earth ! 

II. 

I marked the breathings of her dragon 
crest ; 
My Soul, a sorrowful interpreter, 
In many a midnight vision bowed 
Bcfoie the ominous aspect of her spear ; 
Whether the mighty beam, in scorn upheld, 
Threatened her foes, — or, pompously at 

rest. 
Seemed to bisect her orbed shield, 
•As stretches a blue bar of soMd cloud 
Across the setting sun and all the fiery west. 

III. 

So did she daunt the Earth, and God 
defy ! 

And, whcresoe'er she spread her sover- 
eignty, 

Poll ut. on tainted all that was most pure. 

— Have we not known — and live we not to 

tell- 

That Justice seemed to hear her final knell.' 

Faitli buried deeper m her own deep breast 

Her stores, and sighed to find them insie- 
cure ! 

And Hope was maddened by the drops that 
fell 

From shades, her chosen place of short-lived 
rest. 

Shame followed shame, and woe supplanted 
woe — 

Is this the only change that time can show ? 

How long shall vengeance sleep? Ye pa- 
tient Heavens, h<Av long .'' 

— Infirm ejaculation ! from the tongue 
Of Nations wanting virtue to be strong 
Up to the measure of accorded might, 
And daring not to feel themajtsly of right 1 



Weak Spirits are there— who wcn.M isk« 
T^pon the pressure of a painful thing, 
'111.' hon's sinews, or the eagle's wir.g ; 
Or let their wishes loose, in forest glade. 
Among the lurking j owers 
Of herbs and lowly flowers. 
Or seek, from saints above, miraculous 

aid- 
Tliat Man may be accomplished for a task 
Which his own nature hath enjoined ;— and 
why? 



276 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATIOI^. 



1 



If, when that interference hath relieved him, 
He must sink duwn to languish 

In worse than former helplessness — and lie 
Till the caves roar, — and, imbecility 
Again engendering anguish, 

The same weak wish returns that had before 
deceived him. 



But Thou, supremo Disposer ! may'st not 

speed 
The course of things, and change the creed 
Which hath been held aloft before men's 

sight 
Since the first framing of societies, 
Whether, as bards have told in ancient 

song, 
Built up by soft seducing liarmoni 
Or prest together by. the appetite. 
And by the power, of wr 



TAI'lT II. 
I. 



ON A CELKBRATm FVF.NT IN ANCIENT 

iiisroKV. 

A Roman Master stands on Grecian 
ground. 

And to the people at the Isthmian Games 

Assembled, He, by a heiald's voice, pro- 
claims 

The Liherty of Greece :— the words re- 
bound 

Until all voices in one voice are drowned ; 

Glad acclamation by which air was rent ! 

And birds, high flying in the element, 

Dropped to the earth, astonished at the 
sound ! 

Yet were the thoughtful grieved ; and still 
that voice 

Haunts, with sad echoes, musing F"ancy's 
ear : 

Ah! that a Conqueror' s words should be so 
dear : 

Ah ! that a boon could shed such rapturous 
joys ! 

A gift of that which is not to be given 

By all the blended powers of Earth and 
Heaven. 



UPON the same EVENT. 

When, far and wide, swift as the beams of 

morn 
The tidings passed of servitude repealed, 



And of that joy v/hich shooK the Isthmian 

Field, 
The rough .^Etolians smiled with bitter 

scorn. 
" 'Tis known," cried they, "that he who 

would adorn 
His envied temples with the Isthmian crown 
Must either win, through effort of his own. 
The prize, or be content to see it worn 
By more deserving brows.— Yet so ye jjrop 
Sons of the brave who fought at Marathon, 
Your feeble spirits I Greece her head hath 

bowed, 
As if the wreath of liberty thereon 
Would fix itself as smoothly as a cloud 
Which, at Jove's will, descends on Pelion's 

top." 

III. 

TO THOMAS CLARKSON, ON THE FINAL 
I'ASSING OF THE MIL FOR THE ABOLI- 
TION OF THE SLAVE TRADE. 

March, 1S07. 
Clarkson ! it was an obstinate hill to 

climb: 
How toilsome — nay, how dire — it was, by 

thee 
Is known ; by none, perhaps, so feelingly * 
But thou, who, starting in thy fervent 

prime, 
Didst first lead forth that enterprise sub- 
lime. 
Hast heard the constant Voice its charge 

repeat. 
Which, out of thy young heart's oraculiir 

seat. 
First roused thee.— O true yoke-fellow of 

Time, 
Duty's intrepid liegeman, see, the palm 
Is won, and by all Nati(>ns shall be worn ! 
The blood-stained Writing is forever torn; 
And thou henceforth wilt have a good man's 

calm, 
A great man's happiness ; thy zeal shall 

' find 
Repose at length, firm friend of human 

kind ! 

IV. 

a prophecy, fetruary, 1807. 
High deeds, O Germans, are to come from 

you ! 
Thus in your books the record shall be 

found, 
" A watchword was pronounced, a poteni 

sound — 



POEMS OF THE nrAGlNATlOhr. 



277 



Arminius ! — all the people quaked like 

dew 
Stirred by the breeze ; they rose, a Nation, 

true, 
True to herself— the mi-hty Germany, 
She of the Danube and the Northern Sea, 
She rose, and off at once the yoke she 

threw. 
All power was given her in the dreadful 

trance : 
Those new-born Kings she withered like a 

rtaine."' 
-Woe to them all! but heaviest woe and 

shame 
To that Bavarian who cf)uld first advance 
His banner in accursed leai^ue witii FranC'", 
Fu'st open traitor to the German name ! 



COMPOSED BY THE SIDE OF GRASMERE 
LAKE. 

1807. 

CiOUDS, lingering yet, extend in solid bars 
Through the gray west; and lo ! these 

waters, steeled 
By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield 
A vivid repetition of the stars ; 
Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars 
Amid his fellows beauteously revealed 
At happy distance from earth's groaning 

field, 
Where ruthless mortals wage incessant 

wars. 
Is it a mirror ? — or the nether Sphere 
Opening to view the abyss in which she 

feeds 
Her own calm fires ? — But list ! a voice is 

near; 
Great Pan himself low-whispering through 

the reeds, 
" Be thankful, thou ; for, if unholy deeds 
Ravage the world, tranquillity is here! " 

VI. 

Go back to antique ages, if thine eyes 
The gt-nuinc mien and character would 

trace 
Of the rash Spirit that still holds her place, 
Prompting the world's audacious vanities ! 
Go back, and see the Tower of Babel rise ; 
The pyramid extend its monstrous base. 
For some Aspirant of our short-lived race. 
Anxious an aery name to immortalize. 
There, too, ere wiles and politic dispute 
Gave specious coloring to aim and act, 



See the first miglity tluntcr leave the 

brute — 
To chase mankind, with men in armies 

packed 
For his tield-pastime high and absolute. 
While, to dislodge his game, cities art 

sacked ! 

VII. 

COMPOSED WHILE THE /.UTHOR W/^S 
ENGAGED IN WRITING A IK ACT, UC 
CASIONED liV HIE CONVENTION OF 
CINTRA. 

S08. 
Not 'mid the World's vain objects that 

enslave 
The free-born Soul — that VVorld whose 

vaunted skill 
In selfish interest perverts the will, 
Whose factions lead astray the wise and 

brave — 
Not there ; but in dark wood and rocky 

cave. 
And hollow vale which foaming torrents fil! 
Willi omnipresent murmur as tht y rave 
Down their steep beds, that never shall be 

still; 
Here, mighty Nature ; in this schdr)l sub- 
lime 
I weigh the hopes and fears of suffering 

Spain ; 
For her consult the auguries of time, 
And through the human heart explore my 

way ; 
And look and listen — gathering, whence I 

may, 
Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can 

restrain. 

VIII. 

COMPOSED at the SAME TIME AND ON 
THE SAME OCCASU)N. 

1 DROPPED my jien ; and listened to the- 

Wind 
That sang of trees up-torn and vessels 

tost— 
A midnight harmony ; and wholly lost 
To the general sense of men by chains con 

fined 
Of business, care, or pleasure ; or resigned 
To timely sleep. Thuuglit I, the impas- 
sioned strain. 
Which, without aid of numbers, I sustain, 
Like acceptation from tiie World will find. 
Yet some with apprehensive ear shall drink 



278 



POEMS OF THE IMAGTMATION. 



A dirge devoutly breathed o'er sorrows 
past ; 

And to the attendant promise will give 
heed — 

The prophecy, — like that of this wild blast, 

Which, while it makes the heart with sad- 
ness shrink, 

Tells also of bright calms that shall suc- 
ceed. 



IX. 



Of mortal parents is the Hero born 

By whom the undaunted Tyrolese are led ? 

Or is it Toll's great Spirit, from the dead 

Returned to animate an age forlorn ? 

ile comes like Phoebus through the gates 

of morn 
When dreary darkness is discomfited. 
Yet mark his modest state ! upon his head, 
That simple crest, a heron's plume, is 

worn, 
O Liberty ! they stagger at the shock 
From van to rear — and with one mind 

would flee. 
But half their host is buried : — rock on rock 
Descends: — beneath this godlike Warrior, 

see ! 
Hills, torrents, woods, embodied to bemock 
The Tyrant, and confound iiis cruelty. 



Advance — come forth from thy Tyrolean 
ground, 

Dear Liberty ! stern Nymph of soul un- 
tamed ; 

Sweet Nymph, O rightly of the mountains 
named ! 

Through the long chain of Alps from mound 
to mound 

And o'er the eternal snows, like Echo, 
bound ; 

Like Echo, when the hunter train at dawn 

Have roused her from her sleep : and forest- 
lawn, 

Cliffs, woods and caves, her viewless steps 
resound 

And babble of her pastime ! — On, dread 
Power ! 

With such invisible motion speed thy 
flight 

Through hanging clouds, from craggy 
height to height. 

Through the green vales and through the 
herdsman's bower — 



That all the Alps may gladden in Ihj 

might. 
Here, there, and in all places at one hour. 



XI. 



FEELINGS OF THE TYROLESE. 

The- Land we from our fathers had in 

trust. 
And to our children will transmit, or die ; 
This is our maxim, this our piety ; 
And God and Nature say that it is just. 
That wliich we would perform in arms — we 

must ! 
We read tlie dictate in the infant's eye ; 
In the wife's smile ] and in the placid sky; 
And, at our feet, amid the silent dust 
Of them that were before us. — Sing aloud 
Old songs, the precious music of the heart ! 
Give, herds and flocks, your voices to the 

wind ! 
While we go forth, a self-devoted crowd. 
With weapons grasped in fearless hands, to 

assert 
Our virtue, and to vindicate mankind. 



Alas ! what boots the long laborious quest 
Of moral prudence, sought through good 

and ill ; 
Or pains abstruse — to elevate the will. 
And lead us on to that trandscendant rest 
Where every passion shall the sway attest 
Of Reason, seated on her sovereign hill ; 
What is it but a vain and curious skill, 
If Sapient Germany must lie deprest, 
Beneath the brutal sword ? — Her haughty 

Schools 
Shall blush ; and may not we with sorrow 

say, 
A few strong instincts and a few plain 

rules, 
Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have 

wrought 
More for mankind at this unhappy day 
Than all the pride of intellect and thought ? 



And is it among rude untutored Dales, 
There, and there only, that the heart is 

true ? 
And, rising to repel or to subdue. 
Is it by rocks and woods that man prevails ? 
Ah no ! though Nature's diead protection 

fails, 



POEMS OF THE TMAGTNATrO]^. 



279 



There is a bulwark in the soul. Tliis knew 
Iberian Burghers when the sword they 

drew 
In Zarugoza, naked to the gales 
Of fieicely-breathing war. The truth was 

fait 
By i'alafox, and many a brave compeer, 
Like lum of noble birth and noble mind ; 
By ladies, meek-eyed women without fear; 
And wanderers of the street, to whom is 

dealt 
The bread which without industry they 

fina. 

XIV. 

I O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on 
plain, 
Dwells in the affections and the soul of 
man 
I A Godhead, like the universal Pan ; 
I But more exalted, willi a brigliter tram : 
And shall his bounty be dispensed in vain, 
5^!lowe^cd equally on city and on field, 
And neither hope nor steadfast promise 

yield 
In these usurping times of fear and pain ? 
Such doom awaits us. Nay, forbid it, 
Heaven! 
I We knov/ the arduous strife, th.c eternal 

laws 
I To which the triumph of all good is given, 
I Ilir;h sacrifice, and labor without pause. 
Even to the death : — else wherefore sliould 

the eye 
Of man converse with immortality ? 



XV. 



ON THE FINAL SUBMISSION OF THE TYR- 
OLESE. 

It was a moral end for which they fought ; 

Klse how, when mighty Thrones were put 
to shame. 

Could they, poor Shepherds, have pre- 
served an aim, 

A resolution, or enlivening thought? 

Nor hath that moral good been vabtly 
sought ; 

For in their magnanimity and fame 

Powers have they le;t, an impulse, and a 
claim 

Which neither can be overturned nor 
bought. 

Sleep, Warriors, sleep ! among your hills 
repose ! 

We know that ye, beneath the stern control 



Of awful prudence, keep the unvanquished 

soul : 
And when, impatient of her guilt and woes, 
Europe breaks forth : then, Shepherds ; 

shall ye rise 
For perfect triumph o'er your Enemies. 



Hail, Zaragoza ! If with unwet eye 
We can approach, thy sorrow to behold, 
Vet is the heart not pitiless nor cold ; 
Such spectacle demands nut tear or sigh. 
These desolate remains are trophies high 
Of more than martial courage in llie breast 
Of peaceful civic virtue ; tiiey attest 
Thy matchless worth to all posterity 
Blood flowed before thy sight without re- 
morse ; 
Disease consumed thy vitals ; War up- 
heaved 
The ground beneath thee with volcanic 

forcj : 
Dread tr.als ! yet encountered and sus- 
tained 
Till not a wreck of help or hope remained, 
And law was from necessity received. 



Say, what is Honor ?— 'Tis the finest sense 
Of justice which the luinian mind can 

frame. 
Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim. 
And guard tlie way of life from all offence 
Suffered or done. When lawless violence 
Invades a Realm, so pressed that m Uie 

scale 
Of perilous war her weightiest armies fail, 
Honor is hopeful elevation, — whence 
Glory, and triumph. Yet with politic skil, 
Endangered States may yield to terms un 

just; 
Stoop their proud heads, but not unto the 

dust— 
A Foe's most favored purpose to fulfill: 
Happy occasions oft by self-mistrust 
Are forfeited ; but infamy doth kill. 

XVIII. 

The martial courage of a day is vain, 
An empty noise of death the b ittle's roar, 
If vital hope be wanting to restore, 
Or fortitude be wanting to sustain, 
Armies or kingdoms. We have heard a 

strain 
Of triumph, how the laboring Danube bore 
A weight of hostile corses; drenched witJp 

gore 



38o 



POE}rS OF THE nfAGLVATlOAr. 



Were the wide fields, the hamlets heaped 

with slain. 
Yet see (the mighty tumult overpast) 
Austria a Daughter ot her Throne hath sold ! 
Antl her Tyrolean Champion we behold 
Murdered, like one ashore by shipwreck cast. 
Murdered without relief. Oh! blind as bold, 
To think that such assurance can standfast ! 



Brave Schill ! by death delivered, take thy 

flight 
From Prussia's timid region. Go, and rest 
With heroes, 'mid the Islands of the Blest, 
Or in tiie fields of empyrean light. 
A meteor wert thou crossing a dark night ; 
Yet shall thy name, conspicuous and sub- 
lime, 
Stand in the spacious firmament of tmie. 
Fixed ;is a star: such glory is thy right. 
Alas I it may not be: for earthly fame 
Is Fortune's frail dependent ; yet there lives 
A Judge who, as man claims by merit, gives ; 
'i'o whose all-pondering mind a noble aim, 
I'.ulhfully kept, is as a noble deed ; 
In whose pure sight all virtue doth succeed. 

XX. 

Call not the royal Swede unfortunate, 
Who never did to Fortune bend the knee ; 
Who slighted fear ; rejected steadfastly 
Temptation ; and whose kingly name and 

state 
Have " j-ierished by his choice, and not his 

fate ! " 
Hence lives He, to his inner s.lf endeared ; 
And hence, wherever virtue is revered. 
He sits a more exalted Potentate, 
Tln-oned in the hearts of men. Should 

Heaven ordain 
That this great Servant of a righteous cause 
Must still have sad or vexing thoughts to 

endure. 
Yet may a sympathizing spirit pause, 
Admonished l)y these truths, and Cjuench all 

pain 
In thankful joy and gratulation pure. 

XXI. 

Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid 
His vows to fortune ; who, in cruel slight 
Of virtuous hope, of liberty, and right, 
Hath followed wheresoe'er a way was made 
By the blind Goddess, — ruthless, undis- 
mayed ; 
And so hath gained at length a prosi)erou-.> 
height, 



Round which the elements of worldly might 
Beneath his haughty feet, like clouds, are 

laid. 
O joyless power that stands by lawless force 1 
Curses are his dire portion, scorn, and liale, 
Internal darkness and unquiet breatli ; 
And, if old judgments keep their sacred 

course. 
Him from that height shall Heaven precipi- 
tate 
By violent and ignominious death. 

xxn. 

Is there a power that can sustain and cheer. 
The captive chieftain, by a tyrant's doom, 
Forced to descend into his destined tomb — 
A dungeon dark ! where he must waste the 

year. 
And lie cut off from all his heart holds dear; 
Wliat time his injured country is a stage 
Whereon deliLerate Valor and the rage 
Of righteous Vengeaiice side by side appear, 
Filling from morn to night the heroic scene 
With deeds of hope and everlasting praise : — • 
Say can lie think of this with mind serene 
And silent fetters ? Yes, if visions bright 
Shine on his soul, reflected from the days 
When he himself was tried m open light. 

XXIIL 
iSio. 
An ! where is Palafox .? Nor tongue nor pen 
Reports of him, his dwellmir or his grave I 
I )oes yet the unheard-of vessel ride th.o wave? 
Or is she swallowed up, remote from ken 
Of jiitying human nature? Once a'jain 
Methinks that we shall hail thee. Champion 

brave, 
Redeemed to baffle that imperial Slave, 
And through all Europe cheer desponding 

men 
With new-born hope. Unbounded is the 

might 
Of martvrdom, and ioiiitiide, and right. 
Hark, how thy Country triumphs !--SmiI. 

ingly 
The h'ternal looks upon her sword thai 

gleams, 
r.ike his own lightning, over mountains higli, 
On rampart, and the banks of all her sti earns 

XXIV. 

In due observance of an ancient lite, 

'I'he rude Biscayans, when their children li« 

Dead in the sinless time of infancy. 

Attire the peaceful cori^e in vestments wliitcf 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINA TIOJV 



2S1 



And, in like si^n of cloudless triumph bright, 
They bind the unoffending creature's brows 
With happy garlands of the pure white rose : 
Then do a festal company unite 
In choral song ; and, while the uplifted cross 
Of Jesus goes before, the child is borne 
Uncovered to his grave: 'tis closed, her loss 
The Mother then mourns, as she needs must 

mourn ; 
Rut soon, through Christian faith, is grief 

subdued ; 
And joy returns, to brighten fortitude 



FEELINGS OF A NORLE BISCAYAN AT ONE 
OF THOSE FUNERALS. 

iSlO. 

1 Vet, yet, Biscayans ! we must meet our 

I Foes 

' With firmer soul, yet labor to regain 

Our ancient freedom ; else 'twere worse than 
vain 

To gather round the bier these festal sh.ows. 

A garland fashioned of the pure wliite luse 

Becomes not one whose father is a slave : 

Oh, bear the infant covered to his grave ! 

These venerable mountains now enclose 
' A people sunk in apathy and fear. 

If this endure, farewell, for us, all good ! 
I The awful light of heavenly innocence 

Will fail to illuminate the infant's bier ; 

And guilt and shame, trom which is no de- 
fence, 

Descend on all that issues from our blood. 

XXVI. 

THE OAK OF GUERNICA. 

The ancient oak of Guernica, says Laborde in 
lus account of Biscay, is a most vencrnble 
natural monument. Ferdinand and Isabella, 
in the year 1746, after hearing mass \\\ the 
church ot Santa Maria de la Antigua, rei)aired 
to this tree, under which they swore to tlie 
Biscayans to maintain their /tteros (privi- 
leges.) What other interest belongs to it in 
the minds of this people will appear trom 
the ioJlowing 

SUPPOSED ADDRESS TO THE SAME. 1810. 

I Oak of Guernica ! Tree of holier power 
I Than that which in Dodona did enshrine 
(So faith too fondly deemed) a voice divine 
Heard from the depths of its aerial bower— 
riow canst thou flourish at this blighting 
hoiir? 



What hope, what joy can sunshine bring t« 

thee, 
Or the soft breezes from the Atlantic sea. 
The dews of morn, or April's tender showci 
Stroke merciful and welcome would that be 
Which should extend thy branches on the 

ground, 
If never more within their shady round 
Those lofty minded Lawgivers shall meet, 
Peasant and lord, in their appointed seat. 
Guardians of Biscay's ancient liberty, 

XXVII. 

INDIGNATION OF A HIGH-MINDED 

SPANIARD. 

1810. 

We can endure that He should waste our 

lands. 
Despoil our temples, and by sword and 

dame 
Return us to the dust from which we came, 
Such food a Tyrant's appetite demands; 
And we can brook the thought that by his 

hands 
Spain may be ovcr]X)wered, and he possess, 
For his delight, a solemn wilderness 
Where all the brave he dead. But, when of 

bands 
Which he will break for us he dares to speak, 
Of bcnchts, and ot a future day 
When our enlightened minds shall bless his 

sway ; 
T/ie)i, the strained heart of fortitude proves 

weak ; 
Our groans, our blushes, our pale cheeks de- 
clare 
That he has power to inflict what we lack 

strength to bear. 

xxvm 
AvAUNT all specious pliancy of my*\^ 
In men of low degree, all smooth p.'*^cncc J 
1 better like a blunt indifference. 
And self-respecting slowness, disincli '^d 
To win me at first sight ; and bG there 

joined 
Patience and temperance with this •igi> 

reserve. 
Honor that knows the path and wil' not 

swerve ; 
Affections, which, if put to proof, are kind 
i And piety towards God. Such men of old 
Were England's native growth ; and 

throughout .'^pain, 
(Thanks to high God) forests of such rf 

main "• 



282 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION'. 



Then for that Country let our hopes be bold ; 
Fur matched with tliese bliall j^ulicy prove 

vain, 
Her arts, her strength, her iron, and her 

gold. 



iSio. 

O'ervvI'ENINg Statesmen have full long 

lelicd 
On fleets and armies, and external wealth : 
But horn within proceeds a Nation's health ; 
VVIiicii shall not lail, though poor men cleave 

with pride 
To the paternal floor; or turn aside, 
In the thronged city, from the walks of gam, 
As being all unworthy to detain 
A Soul by contem|ilation sanctified. 
There are whot.uinot languish in this strife, 
Spaniards of every rank, by whom the good 
( )l such high course was felt and understood •, 
Who to their Country's cause have bound a 

hie 
Ercwhile, by solemn consecration, given 
To labor, and to prayer, to nature, and to 

heavL-n. 



THE FRENCH AND THE SPANISH 
GUERILLAS. 

Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping 

blast 
From bleak hill-top, and length of march by 

night 
Through heavy swamp, or over snow-clad 

height— 
These hardships ill-sustained, these dangers 

past, 
The roving Spanish Bands are leached at 

last. 
Charged and dispersed like foam . but as a 

flight 
Of scattered quails by signs do reunite. 
So these, — and, heard of once again, are 

chased 
Of combinations of long-practised art 
And newly-kindled hope , but they are fled — 
Gone are they, viewless as the buried dead: 
Where now ? — Their sword is at the Foe- 
man's heart ! 
And thus from year to year his walk they 

thwart. 
And hang like dreams around his guilty bed. 



SrANLSH GUERIH.A. 

iSn. 

TiiEV seek, are sought ; to daily battle led, 
Shrink not, though far outnumbeied by theil 

Foes, 
For they have learnt to open and to close 
The ridges ot gnm war ; and at their head 
Are captains such as erst their country bred 
Or tostered, sell-supported chiels,— like those 
Whom hardy Rome was tearful lo opposi ; 
Whose cicsijcr^itc shock the Carthaginian 

fled. 
In One who lived unknown a shepherd's life 
Redoubted Virialus breathes again; 
And Mina, ncMirihlu'd in the studious shado, 
With that great Leader * vies, who, sick of 

strife 
And bloodshed, longed in quiet to be laid 
In some green island ol the western main. 

XXXII. 

iSi I. 

The power of Armies is a visible thing, 
Formal, and circumscribed in time and 

space ; 
But who the limits of that power shall trace 
Which a brave Peopl- into light can bring 
Or hide, at will,— for Ircedom combating 
By just revenge inflamed .'' No loot may 

chase, 
No eye can follow, to a fatal place 
That power, that spirit, whether on the wing 
Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the 

wind 
Within its awful caves— From year to year 
Springs this indigenous produce far and near 
No cratt this subtle element can bind, 
Rising like water trom the soil, to find 
In every nook a lip that it may cheer. 

XXXIII. 

iSii. 
Here pause : the poet claims at least this 

praise, 
That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope 
Of his pure song, which did not shrink fron? 

hope 
In the worst moment of these evil days ; 
From hope, the paramount ditty that 

Heaven lays. 
For its own honor, on man's suffering heart. 
Never may from our souls one truth depart— 



' Sertorius. 



POEMS OF T/.'K lAfAC/NAT/Ol/. 



283 



Tli.it an accursed tliincj it is lo gaze 

C)n prosperoMs tyrants with a dazzled eye ; 

Nor — touciicd witli due abhonencc of (/tar 

gmit 
For whose dire ends tcr.rs How, and blood is 

spilt, 
And justice labors In exticinity — 
Forget thy weakness, v\\w\\ which is built, 
1) wretched man, the throne of tyranny ! 



THE I'RENCil AKiM\ l.N KUSblA 
1S12-13. 

Hi'MANlTV, delighting to beliold 
A iiind reflection of her own decay, 
>!alli painted Winter like a traveller old, 
I'lopped on a staff, and, through the sullen 

: day, 

I In hooded mantle, limping o'er the ])Iain, 
As though his weakness were disluibed by 

pain •, 
Or, if a jiister fancy should allow 
An unchsputcd symbol of ccjmmand, 
Tiie chosen sceptre is a withered bough, 

I Infirmly grasped within a palsied hand 

These eml3lem5 suit the helpless and lorlorn , 

1 But mighty Winter the device shall scorn. 

I For lie it was — dread Winter ! who beset, 
i Flinging round van and rear his ghastly net, 
I That host, when from the regions of the Pole 
I They shrunk, insane ambition's barren goal — 
I That iiost, as huge and strong as e'er defied 
1 Their God, and placed tiieir trust in human 
j pride ! 

j As fathers persecute rebellious sons, 

He smote the blossoms of their warrior 
I youth ; 

I He called on Fiost's inexorable tooth 
' Life to consume in Maniiood's hrmest hold ; 
' Nor spared the reverend blood that feebly 
1 runs ; 

For why — unless for liberty enrolled 
And sacred liome — ah 1 why should hoary 
Age be bold ? 

Fleet the Tartar's reinless steed. 
But fleeter far the pinions of the Wind, 
Which from Siberian caves the Monarch 

freed, 
And sent him forth, with squadrons of his 

kind, 
And bade the Snow their ample backs 
bestride. 

And to the b?ttie ride. 



No pityingvoice commands a halt, 
No courage can re|)el tlie dire assr.ult , 
Histractcd, spiritless, benumbed, an.J blind, 
Whole legi(;ns sink — and, i.i one instant, 

tind 
Burial and death : look for them — and 

descry, 
When morn returns, beneath the clear blue 

sky, 
A soundless waste, a trackless vacancy I 



ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

Vu Sloims, resound the praises of your 

King I 
,\nd ye mild Seasons — in a sunny rlimn, 
Midwav on some high hilt, while fatlier Time 
Looks on deligl:ted — meet in festai ring, 
And loud and long of Winter's triumiih sing! 
Sing ye, with blossoms crowned, and fruits 

and flowers, 
Of Winter's breath surcharged with sleety 

showers. 
And the due flapiiing of his hoary wing ! 
Knit the blithe dance upon the soft green 

grass ; 
With feet, hands, eyes, looks, lips, report 

your gain ; 
Whisper it to the bdlows of the main, 
And to the aerial zeiiiiyrs as they pass, 
'J'hat old decrepit Winter — He hatli slain 
That Host, which rendered all your bounties 

vain \ 

XXXVI. 

Rv Moscow self-devoted to a blaze 

Of dreadful sacrifice ; bv Russian blood 

Lavished in hght with desperate hardihood; 

The unfeeling Elements no claim shall raise 

To rob our Human-nature of just praise 

For what she did and suffered. Pledges sure 

Of a deliverance absolute and pure 

She gave, if faith might tread the beaten 

ways 
Of Providence. But now did the Most Hi^h 
Exalt Ivis still small voice ;— to quell that 

Host 
Gathered his power, a manifest ally ; 
He, whose heaped waves confounded the 

proud boast 
Of Pharaoh, said to Famine, Snow, an</ 

Frost, 
" Finish the strife by deadliest v\ctory 1 " 



284 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



XXXVII. 

THE GERMANS ON THE liEIGHTS OF 
HOCK HEIM. 

Abruptly paused the strife; — the field 

throuj^hoiit 
Restiri'j: upon his arms each warrior stood, 
Checked in clie very act and deed of blood, 
Witli breatii suspended, like a listening scout. 
O Silence ! thou vvert motiier of a shout 
That throu2;li the texture of yon azure dome 
Cleaves its £;lad way, a cry of harvest home 
Uttered to Heaven in ecstacy devout! 
The barrier Rhine hath flashed, through 

battle-smoke, 
On men who gaze heart-smitten by the view, 
As if all Germany had tclt tlie shock I 
— Fly, wretched Gauls ! ere they the charge 

renew 
Who have seen — themselves now casting off 

the yoke — 
The unconouerable Stream his course pursue. 



NOVEMBER, 1813. 

Now that ?11 hearts are glad, all faces bright. 
Our aged Sovereign sits, to the ebb and flow 
Of states and kingdoms, to their joy or woe. 
Insensible. He sits deprived of sight. 
And lamentably wrapt in twofold night, 
Whom no weak hopes deceived : whose 

mind ensued, 
Tin-ough perilous war, with regal fortitude. 
Peace that sh.ould claim respect from the 

lawless Might. 
Dread King of Kings, vouchsafe a ray divine 
To his forlorn crndition ! let thy grace 
Upon his inner soul in mercy shine ; 
I'crmit his heart to kindle, and to embrace 
I Though it were only for a moment's space) 
The triumphs of this hour ; for they are 

Thine ! 



ODE. 

1814. 

— Carmina possumus 

Donare, ct prctium dicere muneri, 
Non incisa notis marmora publicis. 
Per quae spiritus et vita redit bonis 
Post mortem ducibus 

clarius indicant 

Laudes, qiiani Pierides ; neque. 

Si cliart;e sileant quod bene f-ceris, 
M-rcedem tuleris.— HoR. Car, S Lib. 4. 



When the soft hand of sleep had closed the 

latch 
On the tired household of corporeal sense, 
And P'ancy, keeping unreluctant watch, 
Was free her choicest favors to dispense : 
I saw, in wondrous perspective displayed, 
k landscape more august than happiest skill 
Of pencil ever clothed with light and shade ; 
An intermingled pomp of vale and liill, 
City, and naval stream, suburban grove. 
And stately forest where the wild deer rove ; 
Xor wanted lurking hamlet, dusky towns, 
And scatterefl rural farms of aspect bright ; 
And, here and there, between the pastoral 

downs. 
The azure sea upswelled upon the sight. 
Fair prospect, such as Britain only shows ! 
But not a living creature could be seen 
Through its wide circuit, that in deep repose, 
And, even to sadness, lonely and serene. 
Lay hushed ; till— through a portal in the sky 
Brighter than brightest loop-hole, in a storm, 
Opening before the sun's triumphant eye — 
Issued, to sudden view, a glorious Form ! 
Earthward it glided with a swift descent : 
Saint George himself this Visitant must l)e ; 
And, ere a tliought could ask on what intent 
He sought the regions of humanity, 
A thrilling voice was heard, that vivified 
City and field and flood ;— aloud it cried — 

" Though from my celestial home, 

Like a Champion, armed I come; 

On my hehn the dragon crest, 

And the red cross on my breast ; 

I, the Guardian of this Land, 

Speak not now of toilsome duty ; 

\Vell obeyed was that command — 

Whence bright days of festive beauty ; 
Haste, Virgins, haste !— the flowers which 
summer gave 

Have perished in the field : 
But the green thickets plenteously shall yield 

Fit garlands for the brave, 
That w'll be welcome, if by you entwined ; 
Haste, Virgins, haste; and you, ye Matrons 

grave, 
Go forth with rival youthfulness of mind. 

And gather what ye find 
Of hardy laurel and wild holly boughs — 
To deck your stern Defenders' modest 
brows ! 

Sucli simple gifts prepare, 
Tliough they have gained a worthier meedj 

And in due time shall share 



POEMS OF THE IMAGTA'ATIOfr. 



^iSj 



Those palms and amaranthine wreaths 
Unto their martyred Countrymen decreed, 
In realms where everlasting freshness 
breathes ! " 



And lo ! with crimson banners proudly 
streaming, 
And upright weapons innocently gleaming, 
Along the surface of a spacious plain 
Advance in order the redoubted Bands, 
And there receive green chaplets from the 
hands 
Of a fair female train — 
Maids and Matrons, dight 
In robes of dazzling white : 
While from the crowd bursts forth a rap- 
turous noise 
Hy the cloud-capt hills retorted ; 
And a tb.rong of rosy boys 
In loose fashion tell their joys ; 
And gray-haired sires, on staffs supported, 
Look round, and by their smiling seem to 

say. 
Thus strives a grateful Country to display 
Tlie mighty debt wiiich nothing can repay ! 
111. 
Anon before my sight a ])alace rose 
Built of all precious substances, — so jiiire 
And cxcjuisite, that sleep alone bestows 
Ability like splendor to endure : 
Entered, with streaming thousands, through 

the gate, 
I saw the banquet spread beneath a Dome 

of state, 
A lofty Dome, that dared to emulate 
Tiie heaven of sable niglit 
Witli starry lustre ; yet had power to throw 
Solemn effulgence, clear as solar ligiit, 
Upon a princely company below. 
While the vault rang witli choral harmony. 
Like some nymph-haunted grot beneath the 

roaring sea. 
— Nor sooner ceased that pea!, than on the 

verge 
Of exaltation hung a dirge 
Breathed from a soft and lonely instrument. 
That kindled recollections 
Of agonized affections ; 
And, (hough some tears the strain attended, 

Tiie mournful passion ended 
In pence of spirit, and sublim ■ content ! 
IV. 

But garlands witlier : festal shows depart, 
Like dreams themselves ; and sweetest 
sound — • 



(Albeit of effect profound) 

It was — and it is gone ! 
Victorious England ! bid the silent Art 
Reflect, in glowing hues that shall not fade, 
Those high achievements, even as she 

arrayed 
With second life the deed of Marathon 

Upon Athenian walls i 
So may she labor for thy civic halls . 

And be the guardian spaces 

Of consecrated places 
As nobly graced by Sculpture's patient toil ; 
And let imperishable Columns rise 
Fixed in the depths of this courageous soil; 
Expressive signals of a glorious strife, 
And competent to shed a spark divine 
Into the torpid breast of daily life ; — 
Records on which, for pleasure of all eyes, 

Tlie morning sun may shine 
With gratulation thoroughly benign I 



.^nd ye, Pierian Sisters, sprung from Jo vd 
And sage Mnemosyne, — full long debarred 
From your fust mansions, exiled all too 

long 
From many a hallowed stream and grove, 
Dear native regions where ye wont to rove, 
Chanting for patriot" heroes tlie reward 

Of never-dying song ! 
Now (for, thougli Truth descending from 

above 
The Olympian sunmiit hath destroyed for 

aye 
Your kindred Deities, Yc live and mf>ve. 
Spared for ojjeisance trom perpetual love, 
i<'or privilege redeemed of Codlikc sway) 
Now, on the margin ol some spotless foun- 
tain, 
Or top serene of unmolested mountain, 
Strike audibly the noblest of your lyres, 
And for a moment meet the soul's desires ! 
That I, or some more favoretl Bard, may 

hear 
What ye, celestial Maids ! have often sung 
C)f Britain's acts, — may catch it vvitii rap' 

ear 
And give the treasure to our British tongue 
So shall the ciiaracters of that proud page 
Support their mighty theme from age to 

age ; 
And, in the desert places of the earth, 
Wlien they to future empires have given 

birth, 
So shall the people g;ithe'- and believe 
The bold report, transfer? ed to every chme^ 



286 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



And the whole world, not envious but ad- 
mirine;, 
And to the like aspirins;, 
Own— that the progeny of this fair Isle 
Had power as lofty actions to achieve 
As were performed in man's heroic prime ; 
Nor wanted, when their fortitude liad held 
Its even tenor, and the foe was quelled, 
A corresponding virtue to beguile 
The hostile purpose of wide-wasting Time — 
That not in vain they labored to secure, 
For their great deeds perpetual memory. 
And fame as largely spread as land and sea, 
By Works of spirit high and passion pure ! 



XL. 



FEELINGS OF A FRENCH ROYALIST, 

ON THE DISINTERMENT OF THE RE- 
MAINS OF THE DUKE d'ENGHIEN, 

Dear Reliques! from a pit of vilest mould 
Uprisen — to lodge among ancestral kings; 
And to inflict shame's salutary stings 
On the remorseless hearts of men grown old 
In a blind worship ; men perversely bold 
Even to this hour, — yet, some shall now 

forsake 
Their monstrous Idol if the dead e'er spake, 
To warn the living ; if truth were ever told 
By aught redeemed out of the hollow grave : 
O murdered Prince ! meek, loyal, pious, 

brave ! 
The power of retribution once was given : 
But 'tis a rueful thought tliat willow bands 
So often tie the thunder- wielding hands 
Of Justice sent to earth from highest 

Heaven ! 

XLl. 

OCCASIONED BY THE BATTLE OF 

WATERLOO. 

The last six lines intended for an Inscrip- 
tion.) 

FEBRUARY 1816. 

Intrepid sons of Albion ! not by you 
Is life despised ; all no, tlie spacious earth 
Ni,"'cr saw a race who held, by right of birth., 
So many (objects to which love is due: 
Ye siiglit not life — to God and Nature true ; 
But deatli, becoming death, is dearer far, 
When duty bids you bleed in open war; 



Hence hath your prowess quelled that im 

pious crew. 
Heroes ! — for instant sacrifice prepared ; 
Yet filled with ardor and on triumph bent 
'Mid direst shocks of mortal accident — 
To you who fell, and you whom slangliter 

spared 
To guard the fallen, and consummate tha 

event. 
Your country rears this sacred Monument ! 



siege OF VIENNA RAISED BY JOHN 
SOBIESKI. 



FEBRUARY, 



1816. 



O, FOR a kindling touch from that pure 

flame ^ 

Which ministered, erewhile, to a sacrifice 
Of gratitude, beneath Italian skies. 
In words like these, " Up, Voice of song ! 

proclaim 
Thy saintly rapture with celestial aim : 
For lo ! the Imperial City stands released 
From bondage threatened by tiie embattled 

East, 
And Christi-ndom respires ; from guilt and 

shame 
Redeemed, from miserable fear set free 
liy one day's feat, one mighty victory. 
— Chant the Deliverer's praise in every 

tongue! 
The cross shall spread, the crescent hath 

Vvfaxed dim ; 
He conquering, as in joyful Heaven is sung, 
He ( onqueuing through God, and 

God by iiim.'** 



occasioned by the battle of 
waterloo. 

FEBRUARY, l8i5. 

The Rard— whose soul is meek as dawning 

day. 
Yet trained to judgments righteously sei ere, 
Fervid, yet conversant v/ith holy fear, 
As recognizing one Almighty sway : 
He — whose experie<iced eye can pierce the 

array \ 

Of past events ; to whom, in vision clear, 
Tlie aspiring heads of future things appear, 
Like mountain-tops whose mists have rolled 

away — 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



287 



Assoiled fromall encumbrance or our time,* 
He only, if such breathe, m strains devout 
Sliall compreiiend tliis victory subHme ; 
Shall worthily rehearse the hideous rout. 
The triumph hail, which from their peaceful 

clime 
Angels might welcome with a choral shout ! 

XLIV. 

Emperors and Kings, how oft have tem- 
ples rung 
With impious thanksgiving, the Almighty's 

scorn ! 
How oft above their altars have been hung 
Trophies that led the good and wise to 

mourn 
Triumphant wrong, battle of battle born, 
And sorrow that to fruitless sorrow clung ! 
Now, from Heaven-sanctioned victory, 

Peace is sprung ; 
In this firm hour Salvation lifts her horn 
Glory to arms ! But, conscious that the 

nerve 
Of popular reason, long mistrusted, freed 
Your thrones, ye Powers, from duty fear to 

swerve ! 
Be just, be grateful ; nor, the oppressor's 

creed 
•iteviving, heavier chastisement deserve 
Than ever forced unpitied hearts to bleed. 



xi.v. 
ODE. 



iMAGiNATiON— ne'er before content, 
IJul aye ascending, restless in her pride 
[•"rom ail tiiat martial feats could yield 
To her desires, or to her hopes present — 
Stooped to the victory, on that Bclgic field, 
Achieved this closing deed magnificent. 
And with tlie embrace was satisfied. 
— Fly, ministt rs of fame. 
With every help that ye from eartli and 

Ii"^aven may claim ! 
Bear through the world these tidings of de- 
light I 
—Hours, Days, and Months, have borne 

them in the sight ^ 

Of mortals, hurryin'^ like a sudden shower 
That land-ward stretches from tiie sea. 



• ** From all this world's encumhrnii^o did 
himself assoil." Spenser. 



The morning's splendors to devour ; 
But this swift travel scorns the company 
Ol irksome change, or threats from ^adden• 

ing power. 
— The shock is given — the Adversartet 

bleed — 
Lo^ Jtistueiriiiinphs! Earth t$ freed' 
Joyful annunciation !— it went forth — 
It pierced the caverns of the sluggi>»l\ 

North- 
It found no barrier on the ridge 
Of Andes — frozen gulphs became its 

bridge — 
The vast Pacific gladdens with the 

freight— 
Upon the Lakes of Abia 'tis bestowed — 
The Arabian desert shapes a willing road 

Across her burning breast, 
For this refreshing incense from the 

West !— 
— Where snakes and lions breed, 
Where towns and cities thick as stars ap- 
pear. 
Wherever fruits are gathered, and 

where'er 
The upturned soil receives the hopefid 

seed — 
While the Sun rules, and cross the shades of 

niglit — 
The unwearied arrow hath pursued its 

flight ! 
The eyes of good men thankfully give heed 

And in Us sparkling progress read 
Of virtue crowned with glory's deathless 

meed ; 
Tyrants exult to hear of kingdoms won, 
And slaves are j^leased to learn that mighty 

feats are done ; 
Ever, the proud Realm, from whose dis- 
tracted borders 
This messenger of good was launched in air, 
France, humbled France, amid iicr wild dis- 
orders, 
Feels, and hereafter shall the truth declare, 
That she too lacks not reason to rejoice. 
And utter Rnuland's name with sadly- 
plausive voice. 

II. 

O genuine glorv, pure renown ! 

And well might it beseem that mighty Town 

Into whose bosom earth's best treasure:> 

flow, 
To whom a11 persecuted men retreat; 
If a new Temple lift her votive brow 
High on the shore of silver Thames— to 

greet 



288 



POEMS OF THE TMAGTI^ATIO]^. 



The peaceful guest advancing from afar. 

Bright be the Fabric, as a star 

Fresh risen, and beautiful within ?— there 

meet 
Dependence infinite, proportion just; 
A Pile that Grace approves, and Tune can 

trust 
With his most sacred wealth, heroic dust. 

III. 
But if the valiant of this h 
In reverential modesty demand, 
Tiiat all observance, due to ihem, be paid 
Where their serene progenitors are laid : 
Kings, warriors, high-souled poets, saint- 
like sages, 
England's illustrious sons of long, long 

ages ; 
Be it not unordained that solemn rites. 
Within tlie circuit of those Gothic walls, 
Shall be performed at pregnant intervals ; 
Commemoration holy tliat unites 
The living generations with the dead*; 
By the deep soul-moving sense 
Of religious eloquence, — 
By visual pomp, and by the tie 
Of sweet and threatening harmony 
Soft notes, awful as the omen 
Of destructive tempests coming, 
And escaping Irom that sadness 
Into elevated gladness ; 
While the white-robed choir attendant, 
Under mouldering banners pendent, 
Provoke all potenc symjilionies to rai.-.e 

Songs of victory and praise, 
For them who bravely stood unhurt, or bled 
With medicable wounds, or found then- 
graves 
Upon the battle-field, or under ocean's 

waves ; 
Or were conducted home in single state, 
And long procession — there to lie. 
Where their sons, and all posterity. 
Unheard by them, their deeds shall cele- 
brate ! 

IV. 

Nor will the God of peace and love 

Such martial service disapprove. 

He guides the Pestilence—the cloud 

Of locusts travels on his breath ; 

The region thatin hope was ploughed 
His drought consumes, his mildew taints 

with death ; 

He springs the hushed Volcano's mine 
He puts the Earthquake on hfr still design. 
Darkens the sun, hath bade the forest sink, 



And, drinking towns and cities, still can 

drink 
Cities and towns — 'tis Thou — the work is 

Thine !— 
The fierce Tornado sleeps within thy 
courts- 
He hears the word — he flies— 
And navies perish in their ports , 
For Thou art angry w'ltli thine enemies I 
For these, and mourning for our errors. 
And sins, that point their terrors, 
We bow our heads before Thee, and we 

laud 
And magnify thy name, Almighty God! 
But man is thy most awtiil instrument, 
In working out a pure intent; 
Thou cloth'st the wicked in their dazzling 

mail, 
And for thy righteous purpose they pre- 
vail ; 
Thine arm from peril guards the coasts 
Of them who in thy laws delight 
Thy presence turn, the scale ot doubtful 

fight. 
Tremendous God ol Ijiittles, Lord of Hosts \ 

V. 

Forbear ; — to Tiiec— 
Father and Judge ot all, with fervent 

tongue 
But in a gentler strain 
Of contemplation, by no sense of wrong, 
(Too quick and keen; incited to disdain 
Of pity pleading troni the heart in vain — 

To Thee— To Thee 
Just God of christianized Humanity 
Shall praises be poured forth, and thanks 

, ascend. 
That thou hast brought our warfare to an 

end. 
And that we need no second victory ! 
Blest, above measure blest. 
If on thy love our Land her hopes shall 

rest. 
And all the Nations labor to fulfil 
Thy law, and live henceforth in peace, in 

pure good will. 



XLVI. 

ODE. 

THE MORNING OK THE DAY APPOINTED 
FOR A GENERAL THANKSGIVING. JAN- 
UARY 18, 1816. 

I. 

HAiL,^orient Conqueror of gloomy Night ! 

Thou that canst shed the bliss of gratitude 



POEMS OF tup: imagination. 



28) 



On hearts howe'er insensible or rude ; 
Whether thy punctual visitations smite 
The haughty towers where monarchs dwell ; 
Or thou, impartial Sun, with presence 

bright 
Cheer'st the low threshold of the peasant's 

cell! 
Not unrejoiced I see thee climb the sky 
In naked splendor, clear from mist or haze, 
Or cloud approaching to divert the rays, 
Which even in deepest winter testify 

Thy power and majesty, 
Dazzling the vision that presumes to gaze. 

— Well does thine aspect usher in this Day ; 
As aptly suits therewith that modest pace 

Submitted to the chains 
That bind thee to the path which God 
ordains 

That thou shalt trace, 
Till, with the heavens and earth, thou pass 

away ! 
Noi less, the stillness of these frosty plains, 
Then utter stillness, and the silent grace 
Of yon ethereal summits white with snow, 
(Whose tranquil pomp and spotless purity 

Report of storms gone by 

To us who tread below; 
Do with the service of this Day accord. 

— Divinest Object whicli the upliitcd eye 
0( moj-tal man is suffered to behold : 
Thou, who upon those snow-clad Heights 

has poured 
Meek lustre, nor torget'st the iiumble Vale , 
Thou who dost warm Earth's universal 

mould, 
And for thy bounty were not unadored 

By pions men of old ; 
Once more, heart-cheering Sun, I bid thee 

hail- 
Bright be thy course to-day, let not this 

promise tail 1 



'Mid the deep quiet of this morning hour, 
All nature seems to hear me while I speak, 
By feelings urged that do not vainly seek 
Apt language, ready as the tuneful notes 
That stream in blithe succession from the 
throats 

Of birdfe, in leafy bower, 
Warbling a farewell to a vernal shower 
— There is a radiant though h short-lived 

flame, 
That burns for Poets in the dawning east ; 
And oft my soul iiatli kindled at the SA.ne, 
When the captivity of sleep had ceased ; 

19 



But He who fixed immovably the frame 
Of the round world, and built, by laws ai 
strong, 
A solid refuge for distress — 
The towers of righteousness ; 
He knows that from a holier altar came 
The quickening spark of this day's sacri- 
fice ; 
Knows that the source is nobler whence 
doth rise 
The current of this matin song ; 
That deeper far it lies 
Than aught dependent on the fickle skies. 



Have we not conquered ? — by the venge 
f ul sword .'' 
Ah no, by dint of Magnanimity; 
That curbed the baser passions, and \c^^ 

free 
A loyal band to follow their liege Lord 
Clear-sighted Honour, and his staid Com-. 

• peers. 
Along a track of most unnatural years ; 
In execution of heroic deeds 
Whose memory, spotless as the crystal 

beads 
Of morning dew upon the untrodden 

meads, 
Shall live enrolled above the starry spheres. 
He, who in conceit with an earthly string 
Of Britain's acts would sing. 
He with enraptured voice will tell 
Of One whose spirit no reverse could quel! ; 
Of One that mid the failing never failed— 
Who paints how Britain struggled and pre- 
vailed; 
Shall represent her lahormg with an eye 

Of circumspect humanity , 
Shall show her clothed with strength and 
skill, 
i All martial duties to fulfil ; 
Firm as a rouk m stationary fight ; 
In motion rapid as the lightning's gleam ; 
Fierce as a flood-gritc bursting at midnight 
To rouse the wicked from their gidd}! 

dream — 
Woe, woe to all that face her in the field ! 
Appalled she may not be, and cannot yield. 

IV. 

And thus is missed \\\Kt sole true glory 
That can belong to human story ! 
At which they only shall arrive 
Who through the abyss of weaknes« 
dive 



290 



rOEMS OF THE TMAGIN^iTION 



Tlic veryhumTiilcst are too proud of heart; 
And one brief day is rightly set apart 
For Him wlio hfteth up and layctli low; 
For that Almighty God to whom we owe, 
Say not that we have vanquished— but that 
we survive. 

V. 
How dreadful the dominion of the im- 
pure ! 
Wliy should the Song l^e tardy to proclaim 
That less than power unboimded could not 

tame 
That soul of Evil— which, from hell let 

loose, 
Had filled the astonished world with such 

abuse 
As boundless patience only could endure ? 
—Wide-wasted regions — cities wraj^t m 

flame — 
Who sees, may lift a streaming eye 
To Heaven ; — whc never saw, may heave a 

sigh ; 
But the foundation of our natures shakes. 
And with an infinite pain the spirit aciies. 
When desolated countries, towns on fire, 

Are but the avowed attire 
Of warfare waged with desperate mind 
i^gainst the life of virtue in mankind ; 
Assaulting without ruth 
The citadels of truth ; 
^{Vhile the fair gardens of civility, 
By ignorance defaced, 
By violence laid waste, 
■^'erish without reprieve for flower or tree ! 



A crouching purpose — a distracted will — 
Opposed to hopes that battened upon scorn. 
And to desires whose ever-waxing horn 
Not all the light of earthly power could fill ; 
Opposed to dark, deep ) lots of patient skill, 
And to celerities of lawless force ; 
Which, spurning God, had flung away re- 
morse — 
What could they gain but shadows of 

redress ? 
— So bad proceeded propagating worse ; 
And discipline was passion's dire excess. 
Widens the fatal web, its lines extend, 
And deadlier poisons in the chalice blend. 
When will your trials teach you to be wise ? 
— O prostrate Lands, consult your agonies ! 



No more — the guilt is banish'd, 
And with the guilt, the shame is f^ed ; 



And, with the guilt and shame, the Woe 

hath vanisli'd. 
Shaking the dust and ashes from her head! 
— No more— these lingcrings of distress 
Sully the limpid stream of thankfulness. 
What robe can Gratitude employ 
So seemly as the radiant vest of Joy? 
What steps so suitable as those that move 
In prompt obedience to spontaneous meas 

ures 
Of glory, and felicity, and love. 
Surrendering the whole heart to sacred 

pleasures .'' 

VIII. 

O Britain ! dearer far than life is dear, 

If one there be 

Of all thy progeny 
Who can forget thy prowess, never more 
Be that ungrateful Son allowed to hear 
Thy green leaves rustle or thy torrents roar. 
As springs the lion from his den, 

A 5 from a forest-brake 

Upstarts a glistening snake, 
The bold Arch-despot re-appeared: — agairx 
Wild Europe heaves, impatient to be cast, 

With all her armed Powers, 

On that offensive soil, like waves upon a 
thousand shores. 
The trumpet blew a universal blast! 
But Thou art foremost in the field • — there 

stand : 
Receive the triumph destined to thy hand ! 
All States have glorified themselves ;— their 

claims 
Are weighed by Providence, in balance even ; 
And now, in preference to the mightiest 

names. 
To Thee the exterminating sword is given. 
Dread mark of approbation, justly gained ! 
Exalted office, worthily sustained ! 



Preserve, O Lord ! within our hearts 

The memory of thy favor, 

That else insensibly departs. 

And loses its sweet savor ! 
Lodge it within us ! — as the power of light 
Lives inexhaustibly in precious gems. 
Fixed on the front of Eastern cadems. 
So shine our thankfulness forever bright ! 
What offering, what transcendent mon.. 

ment 
Shall our sincerity to Thee present ? 
— Not work of hands ; but trophies that 
may reach 



POEMS OF THE I MAG IN A TION, 



z^i 



To highest Heaven, tlie labor of the Soul ; 
That builds, as thy unerring precepts teach. 
Upon the internal conquests made by each, 
Her liope of lasting glory for the whole. 
Vet will not heaven disown nor earth gainsay 
The outward service of tiiis day ; 
Whether tiie worshippers entreat 
Forgiveness from God's mercy seat; 
Or thanks and praises to His throne ascend 
That He has brought our warfare to an end, 

And that we need no second victory! 

Ha ! what a ghastly sight for man to see ; 
And to the heavenly saints in peace who 
dwell, 
For a brief moment, terrible ; 
But, to tliy sovereign penetration, fair, 
Before whom all tiiini^s are that were. 
All judgments that have been, or e'er shall 

be, 
Links in the chain of thy tranquillity ! 
Along the bosom of this favored ICation, 
Breathe Thou, this day, a vital undulation ! 
I-et all who do this land inherit 
Be conscious of thy moving spirit ! 
Oh ! 'tis a goodly Ordinance, — tlie sight, 
Though sprung from bleeding war, is one 

of ]-n-ic delight ; 
Bless Thou the hour, or e'er the hour arrive, 
When a whole people shall kneel down in 

prayer, 
And, at one moment, in one rapture, strive 
With lip and heart to tell their gratitude 

For thy protecting care, 
Their solemn joy— praising the Eternal 
Lord 
For Tyianny subdued, 
And for the sway cf equity renewed, 
For liberty confirmed, and peace restored ! 



kiut hark — the summons !- -down the 
placid lake 
Floats the soft cadence of the ciuirch-tower 
bells : 



Bright shines the Sun, as if his beams 

would wake 
The tender insects sleeping in their cells ; 
Bright shines the Sun — and not a breeze to 

shake 
The drops that tip the melting icicles. 

O, enter ttow his temple gate / 
Inviting words — perchance already flimg 
(As the crowd jjress devoutly down th* 

aisle 
Of some old Minster's venerable pile) 
From voices into zealous pa^sion stung. 
While the tubed engine feels the inspninr, 

blast. 
And has begun — its clouds of sound to cast 
Forth towards empyreal Heaven, 
As it the fretted roof were riven. 
f/5, humbler ceremonies now await ; 
But in the bosom, with devout respect 
The banner of our joy we will erect. 
And strength of love our soul shall elevate ; 
For to a few collected in his name, 
'J'hcir heavenly Fatlicr will incline an ear 
Gracious to service hallowed by its aim ; — 
Awake ! tlie majesty of God revere ! 

Go— and with foreheads meekly bowed 
Present your prayers— go— and rejoice 
aloud — 

The Holy One will hear! 
And what, 'mid silence deep, with faith 

sincere, 
Ye, in your low and undisturbed estate, 
Shall simply feel and purely meditate — 
Of warnings — from the unprecedented nnght, 
Which, in our time, the impious have dis- 
closed ; 
And of more arduous duties thence imposed 
Upon the future advocates of right ; 
Of mysteries revealed, 
And judgments unrepealed, 
Of earthly revolution, 
And final retribution,— 
To his omniscience will appear 
An offering not unworthy to find place, 
On this high Day of Thanks, before tho 
Throne of Grace I 



292 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATIOIV. 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT 



1820. 



DEDICATION. 
(sent with these poems, in MS., to- 



Dear Fellow travellers! think not that the 

Muse, 
To You presentine; these memorial Lays, 
Can hope the [general eye tliereon would gazo, 
As on a mirror tliat gives back the hues 
Of living Nature ; no — though free to choose 
'J'he greenest lx)\vers, the most inviting ways, 
The fairest landscapes and the brightest 

days — 
Rydal Mount, Nov.. 1821, 



Her skill she tried with less ambitious views. 
For You she wrought : Ye only can supply 
The life, the truth, the beauty : she confide* 
In that enjoyment n-hich with You abides, 
Trusts to your love and vivid memory ; 
Thus far contented, tliat for You lier verse 
Shall lack not power the " meeting soul to 
pierce ! " 

W. Wordsworth. 



FISH-WOMEN.— ^ON LANDING AT CALAIS. 

'Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold 
The likeness of whate'er on land is seen ; 
But, if the Nereid Sisters and their Queen, 
Above whose heads the tide so long hath 

rolled, 
The Dames resemble whom we here behold. 
How fearful were it down through opening 

waves 
To sink, and meet them in their fretted 

caves. 
Withered, grotesque, immeasurably old. 
And shrill and fierce in accent ! — Fear it not : 
For they Earth's fairest daughters do excel ; 
Pure undecaying beauty is their lot ; 
Their voices into liquid music swell. 
Thrilling each pearly cleft and sparry grot, 
The undisturbed abodes where Sea-nympiis 

dwell I 

II. 

BRUGES. 

Bruges I saw attired with golden light 
iStreamed from the west) as with a robe of 

power : 
The splendor fled ; and now the sunless 

hour, 
That, slowly making way for peaceful niglit, 
Best suits with fallen grandeur, to my sight 



Offers the beauty, the magnificence, 

And sober graces, left her for defence 

Against the injuries of time, the spite 

Of fortune, and the desolating sto! ms 

Of future war. Advance not — spare to hide. 

O gentle Power of darkness ! these milci 

hues ; 
Obscure not yet these silent avenues 
Of stateliest architecture, wliere the Forns 
Of nun-hlce females, with sc*t motion, 

glide ; 



The Spirit of Antiquity— enshrined 
In sumptuous buildings, vocal in sweet song, 
In picture, speaking witli heroic tongue. 
And with devout solemnities entwined — 
Mounts to the seat of grace within the mind ■ 
Hence Forms that glide with swan-like easa 

along. 
Hence motions, even amid the vulgar 

throng. 
To an harmon'ous decency confined 
As if the streets were consecrated ground, 
The city one vast temple, dedicate 
To mutual respect in thought and deed ; 
To leisure, to forbearances sedate ; 
Tt) social cares fr m jarring passion?: freedj 
A deeper peace than that m deserts found 1 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



293 



IV. 

INCIDENT AT BRUGES 

In Bruges town is many a street 

Whence busy life hath tied , 
Where, without hurry, noiseless feei, 

The grass-grown pavement tread 
There heard we, haltmg in the shade 

Flung from h Convent-tower, 
A harp tiiat tuneful prelude made 

To a voice of thrilling power. 

The measure, simple truth to tell, 

Was tit lor some gay throng 
Though from the same grim turret fell 

The shadow and the song 
When silent were both voice and chords, 

The strain seemed doubly dear, 
Yet sad as sweet, — for Ent^Ush words 

Had fallen upon the ear. 

It was a breezy hour of eve , 

And pinnacle and spire 
Quivered and seemed almost to heave. 

Clothed with innocuous fire ; 
But, where we stood, the setting sun 

Showed little oPhis state ; 
And, if the glory reached the Nun, 

'Twas through an iron grate. 

Not always is the heart unwise, 

Nor pity idly born. 
If even a passing stranger sighs 

For them who do not mourn. 
Sad IS thy doom, self-S(jlaced dove, 

Captive, whoe'er thou be ! 
Oh ! what is beauty, what is love, 

And opening life to thee? 

Such feeling pressed upon my soul, 

A feeling sanctified 
By one soft trickling tear that stole 

From the Maiden at my side , 
Less tribute could she pay than this. 

Borne gayly oVr the sea, 
Fresh from the beauty and the bliss 

Of English liberty ? 



AFTER VISITING THE FIELD OF WATER- 
LOO 

^ WINGED Goddess— clothed in vesture 

wrought 
1)1 rainbow colors ; One whose port was 

bold. 
Whose overburthened hand could scarcely 

hold 



The glittering crowns and garlands which it 

brought — 
Hovered in air above the far-famed Spot. 
She vanished ; leaving prosoect blank and 

cold 
Of wind-swept corn that wide around us 

rolled 
In dreary billows, wood, and meagre cot, 
And monuments that soon must disappears 
Vet a dread local recompense we found ; 
While glory seemed betrayed, while patriot- 

zeal 
Sank m our hearts, we felt as men should 

feel 
With such vast hoards of hidden carnage 

near, 
And horror breathing from the silent 

ground ! 



BETWEEN NAMUR AND LIEGE. 

What lovelier home could gentle Fancy 

choose ? 
Is this the stream, whose cities, heights, and 

plains, 
War's favorite playground, are with crimson 

stains 
Familiar, as the Morn with pearly dews ? 
The Morn, that now, along the silver 

Meuse, 
Si)reading. her peaceful ensigns, calls the 

swains 
To tend their silent boats and ringing wains. 
Or strip the bow whose mellow fruit 

bestrews 
The ripening corn beneath it. As mine 

eyes 
Turn from the fortified and threatening hill. 
How sweet the prospect of yon watery 

glade. 
With its gray rocks clustering in pensive 

shade — 
That, shaped like old monastic turrets, r'se 
l'"rom the smooth meadow-ground, serene 

and still ! 

VII. 

aix-la-chapelle. 
Was it to disenchant, and to undo, 
That wc approached the Seat of Charle* 

maine .'' 
To sweep from many an old romantic strain 
That faith which no devotion may renew I 
Why does tiiis puny Church present to view 
Her feeble columns? and that scanty ciiair ! 
This sword that one of our weak times 

mi^ht wear I 



294 



POEMS LF THE IMAGINATION: 



Objects of false pretence, or meanly tri',e ! 
11 from a traveller's fortune I might clami 
A palpable memorial of that day, 
Then would I seek the Pyrenean Ikeach 
That Roland clove with huge two-handed 

sway. 
\nd to the enormous labor left his name, 
Where unremitting frosts the rocky crescent 

bleach. 



IN THE CATHEDRAL AT COLOGNE. 

O FOR the help of Angels to complete 
This temple — Angels governed by a plan 
Tims far pursued (how gloriously!) by 

Man, 
Studious that He might not disdain the seat 
\Vho dwells in heaven ! But that aspiring 

heat 
Hath failed; and now, ye Powers! whose 

gorgeous wings 
And splendid asi>ect yon cmblazonings 
IJut faintly picture, 'twere an oflice meet 
For you on these unfinished shafts to try 
The midnight virtues of your liarmony : — 
This vast design might tempt you to repeat 
Strains that call forth upon empyreal ground 
Immortal Fabrics, rising to the sound 
Of penetrating hearts and voices sweet ! 

IX. 

IN A CARRIAGE, UPON THE RANKS OF 
THE RHINE 

Amid this dance of object sadness steals 
O'er the defrauded heart— while sweeping 

by, 

As in a fit of Thespian jollity, 

Beneath her vine-leat crown the green 

Earth reels : 
Backward, in rapid evanescence, wheels 
J'he venerable pageantry of Time, 
Fach beetling rampart, and each tower 

sublime, 
And what the Dell unwillingly reveals 
Ot lurking cloistral arch, through trees 

espied 
Near the brighi River's edge. Yet why 

repine ? 
To muse, to creep, to halt at will, to gaze — 
Such sweet way faring — of life's spring the 

pride, 
Her summer's faithful joy — that still is 

mine. 
And in fit measure cheers autumnal days. 



X. 

HYMN, 

FOR THE BOATMEN. AS THEY APPROACH 
THE RAPIDS UNDER THE CASTLE OK 
HEIDELBERG. 

Jesu ! bless our slender Boat, 
By the current swept along , 

Loud its threatemngs — let them not 
Drown the music of a song 

Breathed thy mercy to implore. 

Where these troubled waters roar ! 

Saviour, for our warning, seen 
Bleeding on that precious Rood ; 

If, while through the meadows green 
Gently wound the peaceful flood, 

We forgot Thee, do not Thou 

Disregard thy Suppliants now 1 

Hither, like yon ancient Tower 
Watching o'er the River'^ bed, 

Fling the shadow of thy power, 
Else we sleep among the dead ; 

Thou who trod'st the billowy sea. 

Shield us in our jeopardy ! 

Guide our Bark among the waves; 

Through the rocks our passage 
smooth ; 
Where the whirlpool frets and raves 

Let thy love its anger soothe ; 
All our hope is placed in Thee ; 
Miserere Domine ! 



the source OF THE DANUBE. 

Not, like his great Compeers, indignantly 
Doth Danube spring to life ! Tlie wander- 
ing Stream 
(Who loves the Cross, yet to the Crescent's 

gleam 
Unfolds a willing breast) with infant glee 
Slips Irom his prison walls , and Fancy, 

free 
To follow in his track of silver light, 
Mounts on rapt wing, and with a moment's 

Hight 
Hath reached the encincture of that gloomy 

sea 
Whose waves the Orphean lyre forbad to 

meet 
In conflict ; whose rough winds forgot their 

jars 
To waft the heroic progeny of Greece ; 
When the first Ship sailed for the Golde0 

Fleece — 



POEMS OF THE /MAG/NATfON. 



295 



A^RGO — exalted for that darin<;; feat 
To fix in heaven her shape distinct with 
stars. 



ON APPROACHING THE STAUB-BACH, 
LAUTER-BRUNNEN 

Utthrei) by whom, or ho^ inspired— 

desi2;ned 
For what strange service, does this concert 

rcacli 
Our ears, and near the dwelHngs of man- 
kind, 
Mid fields familiarized to human speech? — 
No Mermaids vvaible — to allay the wind 
Driving some vessel toward a dangerous 

beach— 
More thrilling melodies. Witch answering 

Witch. 
To chant a love-spell, never intertwined 
Notes slinll and wild witii art more musical ■ 
Alas ! that from the lips of abject Want 
Or Idleness in tatters mendicant 
The strain should flow— free Fancy to 

enthral, 
And with regret and useless pity haunt 
This bold, this bright, this sky-born 

Waterfall ! 

XIII. 
THE FALL OF THE AAR— HANDEC. 

From the fierce aspect of this River, 

throwing 
His giant body o'er the steep rock's brink, 
r-ack in astonishment and tear we shrink : 
lUit. gradually a calmer look bestowing, 
I'lowers we espy beside the torrent growing ; 
I'"lowers that peep forth from many a cleft 

and cliinv:. 
And, from t!ie whirlwind of his anger, drink 
lines ever fresh, in rocky fortress blowing : 
They suck— from breath tliat, threatening 

to destroy, 
\> more beniiinant than the dewy eve — 
li '.uity, and life, and motions as of joy : 
Kur doubt but lit to whom you Pine-trees 

nod 
Then- heads in sign of worship, Nature's 

';nd, 
Tkkesc nunibler adorations will receive 



XIV. 

MEMORIAL, 

NEAR THE OUTLET OF THE LAKE OF 
THUN. 

" DEM 
ANDENKEy 
MEINES FREU\'DES 
ALOYS KEDING 
MDCCLXVIli:' 
Aloys Reding, it will be remembered, was Cap- 
tain-Generai of tlie Swiss forces, which, with 
a courage and perseverance worthy of the 
cause, opposed the Hagitious and too success- 
ful attempt of Ijuonaparte to subjugaie tlicir 
country. 

Around a wild and woody hill 

A gravelled pathway treading. 

We reached a votive Stone that bears 

The name of Aloys Reding. 

W'ell ludgcd the Friend wlio placed It 

there 
For silence and protection ; 
And haply with a finer care 
Of dutiful affection. 
The Sun regards it from the West , 
And, while in summer glory 
He sets, his sinking yields a type 
Of that pathetic story : 
And oft he tempts the patriot Swiss 
AiTiid the grove to linger, 
Till all IS dim, save this bright Stont 
Touched by his golden finger. 

XV 
composed in ode of THE CATHOLIC 

cantons. 

Doom F.I) as wc are our native dust 
'l"o wet witii many a bitter shower, 
It ill befits us to disdain 
The altar, to deride the fane, 
Where simple Sufferers bend, in trust 
To win a happier hour. 

I love, where spreads the village lawn, 
Upon some knee worn cell to gaze : 
Hail to the firm unmoving cross. 
Aloft, where pines their branches toss! 
And to the chapel far withdrawn. 
That lurks by lonely ways ! 

Where'er we roam — along tlie brink 
Of Rhine — or by the sweeping I'o, 
Through Alpine vale, or champain w'dc, 
Whate'er we look on, at our side 
Be Charity I— to bid us think, 
And feel, if wc would know. 



296 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION: 



AFTER-THOUGHT. 

Oh Life ! without thy checkered scene 
Of right and wrong, of weal and woe. 
Success and failure, could a ground 
For magnanimity be found ; 
For faith, 'mid ruined hopes, serene ? 
Or whence could virtue flow ? 

Pain entered through a ghastly breach 
Nor while sin lasts must effort cease ; 
Heaven upon earth's an empty boast ; 
Hut, for the bovvers of Eden lost, 
Mercy has placed within our reach 
A portion of God's peace. 

XVII. 
SCENE ON THE LAKE OF BRIENTZ. 

" What know we of the Blest above 
But that tiiey smg and that they love?" 
Yet, if they ever did inspire 
A mortal hynm, or shaped the choir, 
Now, where those harvest Damsels float 
Homeward m their rugged Boat, 
(While all the ruffling winds are fled— 
Each slumbermg on some mountain's head) 
Now, surely, hath that gracious aid 
Been ftlt, that influence is displayed. 
Pupils ot Heaven, in order stand 
The rustic Maidens, every hand 
U«)on a Sister's shoulder laid, — 
'I'o chant, as glides the boat along 
A simple, but a touching, song ; 
To chant, as Angels do aljove, 
The melodies of Peace in love ! 



ENGELBERG, THE HILL OF ANGELS. 

For gentlest uses, oft-times Nature takes 
The work of Fancy from her willing hands ; 
And such a beautiful creation makes 
As renders needless spells and magic wands, 
And for the boldest tale belief commands. 
When first mine eyes beheld that famous 

Hill 
Tlie sacred Engelberg, celestial Bands, 
With intermingling motions .soft and still, 
Hung round its top, on wings that changed 

their hues at will. 

Clouds do not namo those "\''isitants ; they 

were 
The very Angels whose authentic lays, 



Sung from that heavenly ground in middle 

air, 
Made known the spot where piety should 

raise 
A holy Structure to the Almighty's praise. 
Resplendent Apparition I if in vain 
My ears did listen, 'twas enougli to gaze ; 
And watch the slow dti)arture of the train, 
Whose skirts the glowing Mountain thirsted 

to detain. 



OUR lady of the snow. 

Meek Virgin Mother, more benign 
Than fairest Star, upon the height 
Of thy own mountain,* set to keep 
Lone vigils through the hours of sleep, 
Wiiat eye can look upon thy shrine 
Untroubled at the sight.? 

These crowded offerings as the) hang 

In sign of misery relieved^ 

Even these, without intent of theirs, 

Report of comfortlv^ss despairs, 

Of many a deep and cureless pang 

And confidence deceived. 

To Thee, in this aerial cleft, 
As to a common centre, tend 
All sufferers that no more rely 
On mortal succor — all who sigh 
And pine, of human hope bereft, 
Nor wish for earthly friend. 

And hence, O Virgin Mother mild ! 
Though plenteous flowers around thee blow, 
Not only from the dreary strife 
Of winter, but the storms of life, 
Thee have thy Votaries aptly styled, 
Our Lady of the Snow. 

Even for the Man who stops not here, 

Hut down the irriguous valley hies. 

Thy very name, O Lady ! flings. 

O'er blooming fields and gushing spnngs 

A tender sense of shadowy fear, 

And chastening sympathies ! 

Nor falls that intermingling shade 
To summer-gladsomcness unkind : 
It chastens only to requite 
With gleams of fresher, purer, light; 
While, o'er the flower-enamelled glade, 
Mrre sweetly breathes the wind. 



* Mount Righi. 



re EMS O/f- THE TMACINATION'. 



29' 



But on ! — a tempting downward way, 
A verdant path before us lies ; 
Clear shines the glorious sun above ; 
Then give free course to joy and love, 
Deeming the evil of the day 
Sufticient for the wise. 



EFFUSION, 

IN PRESENCE OF THE PAINTED TOWEU 
OF TELL, AT ALTORF. 

This Tower stands upon the spot where grew 
the Linden Tree against which his Son is said 
to have been placed, when the P'ather's 
archery was pnt to proof under circums-.":nces 
so famous in Swiss Story. 

What though the Italian pencil wrought 

not here, 
Nor such fine skill as did the meed bestow 
On Marathonian valor, yet the tear 
Sfrings forth in presence of this gaudy 

show, 
While narrow cares their limits overflow. 
Thrice happy, burghers, peasants, warriors 

old. 
Infants in arms, and ye, that as ye go 
Home-ward or school- ward, ape what e 

behold ; 
Heroes before your time, in frolic fancy 

bold ! 

And when that calm Spectatress from on 

high 
Looks down — the bright and solitary Moon, 
Who never gazes but to beautify ; 
And snow-fed torrents, which the blaze of 

noon 
Roused into fury, murmur a soft tune 
That fosters peace, and gentleness recalls ; 
Then might the passing Monk receive a 

boon 
Of saintly pleasure from these pictured 

walls, 
While, on the warlike groups, the mellowing 

lustre falls. 
Hdw blest the souls who when their trials 

come 
Yield not to terror or despondency, 
But face like that sweet Boy their mortal 

doom, 
Whose head the ruddy apple tops, while he 
Expectant stands beneath the linden tree : 
He quakes not like the timiil forest game. 
But smiles — Uie hesitating shaft to free ; 



Assured that Heaven its justice will pro- 
claim, 
And to his Father give its own unerring 
aim. 

XXI. 
the town OF SCHWYTZ. 

By antique Fancy trimmed — though lowly 

bred 
To dignity— in thee, O Schwytz ! are seen 
The genuine features of the golden mean ; 
Equality by Prudence governed. 
Or jealous Nature ruling in her stead ; 
And, therefore, art thou blest with peace, 

serene 
As that of the sweet fields and meadows 

green 
In unambitious compass round thee spread. 
Majestic 15erne, high on her guardian 

steep, 
Holding a central station of command. 
Might well be styled this noble body's 

Head; 
Thou, lodged 'mid mountainous entrench- 
ments deep, 
Its Heart ; and ever may the heroic Land 
Jhy name, O Schwytz, in happy freedon 

keep ! * 

XXII. 

ON hearing the"ranz des vaches" 

ON the top of the pass OF ST. 
GOT HARD. 

I LISTEN — but no faculty of mine 
Avails those modulations to detect, 
Which, heard in foreign lands, the Swis 

affect 
With tendcrest passion ; leaving him topini 
(So fame rejiorts) and die, — his sweet 

brcath'd kine 
Remembering, and green Alpine pastures 

decked 
With venial flowers. Yet may w^» not 

reject 
The tale as fabulous. — Here while I recline, 
Mindful how others by this simple Strain 
Are moved, for me — upon this Mountai" 

named 
Of God himself from dread pre-eminence- 
Aspiring thoughts, by memory reclaimed, 
Yield to the Music's touching influence j 
And joys of distant home my heart enchain. 



* Nearly 500 years (says Ebel, speaking of 
the French Invasion) had elapsed, when, for 
the first time, foreign soldiers were seen upon 
the frontiers of this small Carton, to impose 
upon it the laws of their governors. 



298 



POEMS OF THE IMAGTKATlOiV. 



XXIII. 

FORT FUENTES. 



Tlie Ruins of Fort Fuentes form the crest of 
a mcKy L'liiiiienct; that rises from the plain at 
the heail nf the Like of L'omo.commandhig views 
up the Vaiteliiie, and toward the town of 
ClnaveiMia. The prospect in tlie latter direc- 
tion is characterized by melanclioly sublimity. 
We rejoiced at being favored with a distinct 
view of tiiose Alpine heiglus ; not, as we had 
expected from the breaking up of the storm, 
steeped in celestial glory, yet in communion 
with clouds floating or stationary— scatterings 
fiom heaven. The ruin is interesting botli in 
mass and in detail. An Inscription, upon 
eiaborately-sciili>tured marble lying on the 
ground, records that the Fort had been erected 
by Count Fuentes in the year 1600, during the 
reign of Philip the Third ; and the Chapel, 
about twenty years after, by one of his Descend- 
ants. Marble pillars of gateways are yet 
ctanding, and a considerable part of the Chapel 
walls: a smooth green turf has taken place of 
the pavement, and we could see no trace of 
altar or image ; but everywhere something to 
rernind one of former splendor, and of devas- 
tation and tumult. In our ascent we had passed 
abundance of wild vines intermingled with 
bushes ; near the ruins were some ill tended, 
but growing willingly; and rock, turf, and 
fragments of tlie pile, are alike covered or 
adorned with a variety of flowers, among which 
the rose-colored pink was growing in great 
beauty. While descending, we discovered on 
the ground, apart from the jiath, and at a con- 
siderable distance from the ruined Chapel, a 
stitue of a Child in pure white marble, unin- 
jured by the explosion that had driven it so far 
down the hill. *' How little," we exclaimed, 
"ifre these things valued here! Could we 
but transport this pretty image to our own gar- 
den ! " — Yet It seemed it would have been a 
pity any one should remove it from its couch in 
tlie wilderness, which may be its own for hun- 
dreds of years. — Extract from Jounial. 

Dread hour ! when, upheaved by war's 
sulphurous blast, 

T'lis swoc^t-visaged Cherub of Parian stone 
So Ur from the holy enclosure was cast. 

To couch in this thiclcet of brambles alone . 



To rest where the lizard may bask in the 
palm 
Of his half-open hand pure from blemish 
or speck ; 
And the green, gilded snake, without troub- 
ling the calm 
Of the beautiful countenance, twine round 
his neck ; 



Where haply (kind service to Piety due !) 
When winter the grove of its mantle be 
reaves, 
Some bird (like our own honored redbreast 5 
may strew 
The desolate Slumberer with moss and 
with leaves. 

Fuentes once harbored the good and the 
brave. 
Nor to her was the dance of soft pleasure 
unknown ; 
Her banners for festal enjoyment did wave 
While the thrill of her fifes thro' the 
mountains was blown : 

Now gads the wild vine o'er the pathless 
ascent ; — 
O silence of Nature, how deep is thy 
sway. 
When the whirlwind of human destruction 
is spent, 
Our tumults appeased, and our strifes 
passed away ! 

XXIV. 

THE CHURCH OF SAN SALVADOR, SEEN 
FROM THE LAKE OF LUGANO. 

This Church was almost destroyed by light- 
ning a few years ago, but the altar and the 
image of the Patron Saint were untouched. 
The Mount, upon the summit of which the 
Church is feuilt, stands amid the intricacies of 
the Lake of Lugano ; and is, from a hundred 
points of view, its principal ornament, rising 
to the height of 2000 feet, and, on one side, 
nearly perpendicular. The accent is toilsome ; 
but the traveller who |ierforms it will be amply 
rewarded. Splendid fertility, rich woods and 
dazzling waters, seclusion and confinement of 
view contrasted with sea-like extent of plain 
fading into the sky ; and this again, in an 
opposite quarter, with an horizon of the lofti< st 
and boldest Alps — unite in composing a p.os- 
pect more diversified by magnificence, beauty, 
and sublimity, than perhaps any other point in 
Europe, of so inconsiderable an elevation, com- 
mands. 

Thou sacred Pile ! whose turrets rise 
From yon steep mountain's loftiest stage. 
Guarded by lone San Salvador , 
Sink (if thou must) as heretofore. 
To sulphurous bolts a sacrifice, 
But ne'er to human rage ! 

On Horeb's top, on Sinai, deigned 
To rest the universal Lord : 
Why leap the fountain's from their celll 
Where everlasting Bounty dwells ?— 



POEMS OF THE IMAGlNAJrON". 



299 



That, while the Creature is sustained, 
His God may be adored. 

Cliffs, fountains, rivers, seasons, times- 
Let all remind the soul of heaven ; 
Our slack devotion needs them all ; 
And P^aith — so soft of sense the thrall, 
While she, by aid of Nature, climbs — 
May hope to be forgiven. 

Glory, and patriotic Love, 

And all the Pomps of this frail " spot 

Which men call Earth," have yearned to 

seek, 
Associate with the simply meek, 
Religion in the sainted grove, 
A:ul in the hallowed grot. 

Thither, in time of adverse shocks. 
Of fainting hopes and backward wills, 
Did mighty Tell repair of old — 
A H„M-o cast in Nature's mould. 
Deliverer of the steadfast rocks 
And of the ancient hills ! 

Hc^ too, of battle martyrs chief ! 
Who, to recall his daunted peers, 
For victory shaped an open space. 
By gathering with a wide embrace, 
Into his single breast, a sheaf 
Of fatal Austrian spears.* 



THE ITALIAN ITINERANT, AND THE 
SWISS GOATHERD. 

PART L 

I. 

Now that the farewell tear is dried. 
Heaven prosper thee, be hope thy guide ! 
Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy ; 
The wages of tiiy travel, joy ! 
vVhether for London hound — to trill 
Thy mountain notes with simple skill ; 
Or on thy head to poise a show 
Of Images m set*mly row ; 
The graceful lorm of milk white Steed, 
Or Bird that soared with Ganymede ; 
9r through our hamlets thou wilt bear 
The sightless Milton, with his hair 
Around his placid temples curled ; 
And Shakspeare at his side — a freight, 
If clay couki think and mind were weight. 
For him who bore the world ! 



* Arnold Winkehied, at the battle of Sem- 
pach, biuke au Austrian phalanx in this inauner. 



Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy ; 
The wages of thy travel, joy I 



But thou, perhaps, (alert as free 
Though serving sage philosophy) 
Wilt ramble over hill and dale, 
A Vender of the well-wrought Scale, 
Whose sentient tube instructs to- time 
A purpose to a fickle clime : 
Whether thou choose this useful part, 
Or minister to finer art, 
Though robbed of many a cherished drean^ 
.^nd crossed by many a shattered scheme, 
Wliat stirring wonders wilt thou see 
In the proud Isle of liberty ! 
Yet will the Wanderer sometimes pine 
With thoughts which no delights can chase, 
Recall a Sister's last embrace. 
His Mother's neck entwine ; 
Nor shall forget the Maiden coy 
That would have loved the bright-haired 
Boy! 



My Song, encouraged by the grace 

That beams from his ingenious face, 

For this Adventurer scruples not 

To prophecy a golden lot ; 

Due recompense, and safe return 

To CoMo's steeps — his happy bourne ! 

Where he, aloft in garden glade. 

Shall tend, with his own dark-eyed Maid, 

The towering maize, and prop the twig 

That ill supports the luscious fig ; 

Or feed his eye in path sun-proof 

With purple of the trellis-roof. 

That through the jealous leaves escapes 

From Cadenabbia's pendent grapes. 

— Oh might he tempt that Goatherd-child 

To share his wanderings ! him whose look 

Even yet my heart can scarcely brook, 

So touchingly he smiled — 

As with a rapture caught from heaven — 

For unasked alms in pity given 



PART II. 



With nodding plumes, and lightly drest 
Like foresters in leaf-green vest. 
The Helvetian Mountaineers, on ground 
For Tell's dread archery renowned, 
Before the target stood — to claim 
The guerdon of the steadiest aim. 



300 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Loud was t!ie rifle-gun's report — 
A sta'^tling tliunder quick and short ! 
But, flying through the heights around, 
Echo prolonged a tell-tale sound 
Of hearts and hands alike " prepared 
The treasures they enjoy to guard ! " 
And, if there be a favored hour 
Wiien Heroes are allowed to quit 
The tomb-, and on thp clouds to sit 
With tutelary power, 
On their Descendants shedding grace- 
This was tlie hour, and that the place. 



But Truth inspired the Bards of old 
When of an iron age they told, 
Which to unequal laws gave birth. 
And drove Astraea from the earth. 
— A gentle Boy (perchance with blood 
As noble as tlie best endued, 
But seemingly a Thing despised ; 
Even by the sun and air unprized ; 
Eor not a tinge or flowery streak 
Appeared upon his tender cheek) 
Heart-deaf to those rebounding notes, 
Apart, beside his silent goats, 
Sate watching in a forest shed, 
Pale, ragged, with bare feet and head ; 
Mute as the snow upon the iiill, 
And, as the saint he prays to, still. 
Ah, what avails heroic deed ? 
WJKit liberty ? if no defence 
Be won for feeble Innocence. 
Father of all ! though wilful Manhood read 
His punishment in soul-distress, 
Grant to the morn of life its natural blessed- 
ness. 

XXVI. 

THE LAST SUPPER, BY LEONARDO DA 
VINCI, IN THE REFECTORY OK THE 
CONVENT OE MARIA DELLA GRAZIA — 
MILAN. 

Tho' searching damps and many an envious 

flaw 
Have marred this Work ; the calm ethereal 

grace, 
The love deep-seated in the Saviour's face. 
The mercy, goodness, have not failed to awe 
The Elements ; as they do melt and thaw 
The heart of the Beholder — and erase 
(At least for one rapt moment) every trace 
Ot disobedience to the primal law. 
The annunciation of the dreadful truth 



Made to the Twelve survives : lip, forehead, 

cheek. 
And hand reposing on the board in ruth ■ 
Of what it utters, while the unguilty seek 
Unquestionable meanings — still bespeak 
A labor worthy of eternal youth ! 

XXVII. 

THE ECLIPSE OF THE SUN, 1S2O- 

High on her speculative tower 
Stood science waiting for the hour 
When Sol was destined to endure 
TJiat darkening of his radiant face 
Which Superstition strove to chase, 
Brewhile, with rites impure. 

Afloat beneath Italian skies, 
Through regions fair as Paradise 
We gaily passed,— till Nature wrought 
A silent and unlooked-for change. 
That checked the desultory range 
Of joy and sprightly thought. 

Where'er was dipped the toiling oar, 
The waves danced round us as before, 
As lightly, though of altered hue, 
Mid recent coolness, such as falls. 
At noontide from umbrageous walls 
I'hat screen the morning dew. 

No vapor stretched its wings ; no cloud 

(Jast fast or near a murky shroud ; 

The sky an azure field displayed ; 

'Twas sunlight sheathed and gently charmed, 

( )f all its sparkling rays disarmed, 

And as in slumber laid, — 

Or something night and day between. 
Like moonshine — but the hue was greer 
Still moonshine, without shadow, spreat 
On jutting rock, and curved shore, 
WHiere gazed the peasant from his dooi 
And on the mountain's head. 

It tinged the Julian steeps — it lay 
Lugano ! on thy ample bay ; 
The solemnizing veil was drawn 
O'er villas, terraces, and towers ; 
To Albogasio's olive bowers, 
Porlezza's verdant lawn. 

But Fancy with the speed of fire 
Hath past to Milan's loftiest spire. 
And there alights 'mid that aerial host 
Of Figures human and divine. 
White as the snows of Appenine 
Indurated by frost. 



POdMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



3o» 



Awe-stricken she bcholils tlie array 
That guards the Temple night and day ; 
Angels she sees — that might from licaven 

have flown, 
And Virgin-saints, wlio not in \ lin 
Have striven by purity to gain 
The beatific crown — 

Sees long-drawn files, concentric rings 
Each narrowing aLove each ;— the wings, 
The uplifted palms, the silent marble lips, 
The starry zone of sovereign heiglit — 
All steeped in this portentous light ! 
All suffering dim eclipse ! 

Thus after Man had fallen (if aught 
These perishable spheres have wrought 
May with that issue be compared) 
Throngs of celestial visages, 
Darkening like water in the breeze, 
A holy sadness shared, 

Lo ! while I speak, the laboring Sun 
His glad deliverance has begun : 
Tlie cypress waves her sombre plume 
More cheerily ; and town and tower, 
The vineyard and the olive bower, 
Their lustre re-assume ! 

Ye, who guard and grace my home 
While in far-distant lands we roam. 

What countenance hath this Day put on for 

you ? 
While we looked round with favored eyes, 
Did sullen mists hide lake and skies 
And mountains from your view ? 

Or was it given you to behold 

Like vision, pensive thought not cold. 

From the smooth breast oif gay Windermere ? 

Saw ye the soft yet awful veil 

Spread over Grasmere's lovely dale,* 

Helvellyn's brow severe ? 

1 ask in vain — and know far less 
M sickness, sorrow, or distress 

Have spared my Dwelling to this hour ; • 
Sad blindness ! but ordained to prove 
Our faith in Heaven's unfailing love 
And all-controlling power. 

XXVIII. 
THE THREE COTTAGE GIRLS. 



How blest the Maid whose heart-^yet free 
From Love's uneasy sovereignty — 
Beats with a fancv running high, 
Her simple cares to magnify j 



Whom Labor, never urged to toil, 

llath cherished on a healthful soil ; 

Who knows not pomp, who heeds not pelf; 

Whose heaviest sin it is to look 

Askance npon her pretty Self 

Reflected in some crystal brook ; 

Whom grief hath spared — who sheds no 

tear 
lUit in sweet pity ; and can hear 
Another's praise from envy clear. 



Such (but O lavish Nature ! why 
That dark unfathomable eye. 
Where lurks a* Spirit tiiat replies 
To stillest mood of softest skies. 
Vet hints at peace to be o'erthrown, 
Another's first, and tlien her own r) 
Such, haply, yon Italian Maid, 
Our Lady's laggard Votaress, 
Halting beneath the chestnut shade 
To accomplish there her loveliness • 
Nice aid maternal fingers lend ; 
A Sister serves with slacker hand ; 
Then, glittering like a star, she joins tha 
festal band. 



How blest (if truth may entertain 
Coy fancy with a bolder strain) 
I The Helvetian Girl — who daily 'uraves 
j In her light skiff, the tossing waves. 
And quits the bosom of the t'eep 
Only to climb the rugged steep ! 
— Say whence that modulated shout ! 
From Wood-nymph of Diana's throng ? 
Or does the greeting to a rout 
Of giddy Bacchanals belong ? 
Jubilant outcry ! rock and glade 
Resounded — but the voice obeyed 
The breath of an Helvetian Maid. 



Her beauty dazzles the thick wood ; 
Her courage animates the flood; 
Her steps "the elastic green-sward meets 
Returning unrcluctant sweets ; 
The mountains (as ye heard) rejoice 
Aloud, saluted by her voice I ^ 
Blithe Paragon of Alpine grace. 
Be as thou art— for through thy veins 
The blood of Heroes runs its race ! 
And nobly wilt thou brook the chains 
That, for the virtuous. Life prepares ; 
The fetters which the Matron wears ; 
The prttriot Mother's weight of anxious 
cares i 



302 



POEMS Of THE IMAGINATION. 



**" Sweet Highland Girl! a very shower 

Of beauty was thy earthly dower," 

Wlien thou didst flit before mine eyes, 

Gay Vision under sullen skies. 

While Hope and Love around thee played, 

Near the rough falls of Invcrsneyd ! 

Have they, who iiursed the blossom, seen 

No breach of promise in the fruit ? 

Was joy, in following joy, as keen 

As grief can be in grief's pursuit ? 

When youth had flown did hope still bless 

Thy goings — or the cheerfulness 

Of innocence survive to mitigate distress ? 



But from our course why turn — to tread 
A way with shadows overspread ; 
Where what we gladliest would believe 
Is feared as what may most deceive ? 
Bright Spirit, not with amaranth crowned 
But heath-bells from thy native ground. 
Time cannot thin thy flowing hair. 
Nor take one ray of light from Thee ; 
For in my Fancy thou dost share 
The gift of immortality ; 
And there shall bloom, with Thee allied, 
The Votaress by Lugano's side ; 
And that intrepid Nymph on Uri's steep 
descried ! 

XXIX. 
•X'HE COLUMN INTENDED BY BUONAPARTE 
FOR A TRIUMPHAL HUIFICE IN MILAN, 
NOW LYING BY THE WAY-SIDE IN THE 
SIMPLON PASS. 

Ambition — following down this far-famed 

slope 
Her Pioneer, the snow-dissolving Sun, 
While clarions prate of kingdoms to 'oe 

won — 
Perchance, in future ages, here may stop ; 
Taught to mistrust hor flattering horoscope 
By admonition from this prostrate Stone! 
Memento uninscribed of Pride o'crthrown ; 
Vanity's hieroglyphic ; a choice trope 
In Fortune's rhetoric. Daughter of the 

Rock, « 
Rest where thy course was stayed by Power 

divine ! 
The Soul transported sees, from hint of 

thine, 
Crimes which the great Avenger's hand 

provoke, 



* See address to a Highland Girl, p. 255. 



Hears combats whistling o'er the ensan- 
guined heath : 
What groans ! what shrieks ! what quietness 

in death ! 

♦ 

XXX. 

STANZAS, 

COMPOSED IN THE SIMPLON PASS. 

Vallombrosa! I longed in thy shad.cst 

wood [floor. 

To slumber, reclined on the moss-covered 
To listen to Anio's precipitous flood, 
When tlie stillness of evening hath deepened 

its roar ; 
To range through the Temples of P^stum, 

to muse 
In Pompeii preserved by her burial in earth ; 
On pictures to gaze where they drank in 

thc'.r hues ; 
And murmur sweet songs on the ground of 

their birth ! 

The beauty of Florence, the grandeur of 

Rome, 
Could I leave them unseen, and not yield to 

regret ? 
With a hope (and no more) for a season to 

come, 
Which ne'er may discharge the magnificent 

debt ? 
Thou fortunate Region ! whose Greatness 

inurned 
Awoke to new life from its ashes and dust ; 
Twicc-glorificd fields ! if in sadness I turned 
j From your infinite marvels, the sadness was 

just. 

Now, risen ere the light-footed Chaniols 

retires 
From dew-sprinkled grass to heights guarded 

with snow, 
Towards the mists that hang over the land 

of my Sires, 
From tlie climate of myrtles contented I go. 
My thoughts become bright like yon edging 

Oi Pines 
On the steep's lofty verge how it blacken'd 

the air ! 
But, touched from behind by the Sun, it 

now shines 
With threads that seem part of his own 

silver hair. 

Though the toil of the way with dear 

Friends we divide, 
Though by the same zephyr our temples b« 

fanned 



FOhAfS UF THE IMACfNATlhi'T. 



''.ot, 



As we rest in the cool orange -bower side by 

side, 
A yearnino survives which few hearts shall 

withstand . 
ilaclj step hath its value while homeward 

we move ; — 
joy when the girdle of England appears ! 
What moment m life is so conscious of love, 
Of love in the heart made more happy by 

tears ? 



ECHO, UPON THE GEMMl, 

What beast of chase hath broken from 

the cover ? 
Stern Gem mi listens to as full a cry, 
As multitudinous a harmony 
Of sounds as rang the heights of Latmos 

over, 
When, from the soft couch of her sleeping 

Lover 
Up-starting, Cynthia skimmed the moun- 
tain dew 
In keen pursuit— and gave, where'er she flew. 
Impetuous motion to the Stars above her. 
A solitary Wolf-dog, langing on 
Through the bleak concave, wakes this 

wondrous chime ^ 

Of aery voices locked in unison, — 
Faint — far off — near — deep — suLmn and 

sublime ! — 
So, from the body of one guilty deed, 
A thousand ghostly fears, and haunting 

thoughts, proceed 1 



XXXII. 

PROCESSIONS. 

JGCESTED ON A SAr.P.ATH MOK>MNG IN 
THE VALE OF CHAMOUNY. 

I'o appease the Gods ; or public thanks to 

yield ; 
Or to solicit knowledge of events. 
Which in her breast Futurity concealed ; 
And that the past might have its true in- 
tents 
Feelingly told by living mominicnts — 
Mankind of yore were prompted to devise 
Kites such as yet Fersepolis presents 
Graven on her cankered walls, solemnities 
That moved in long arr^y before admiring 
eyes. 



The Hebrews ttius, carrying in joyful state 
Thick bows of paim, and willows from the 

brook, 
Marched round the altar— to commemorate 
How, when their course they through the 

desert took, 
Guided by signs which ne'er the sky forsook, 
They lodged in leafy tents and cabins low ; 
Green boughs were borne, while, for the 

blasts that shook 
Down to the earth the walls of Jericho, 
Shouts rise, and storms of sound from 

lifted trumpets blow ! 

And thus, in order, 'mid the sacred grove 
Fed in the Libyan waste by gushing wells, 
The priests and damsels of Ammonian Jove 
Provoked responses with shrill canticles ; 
While, in a ship begirt with silver iiells. 
They round his altar bore the linined God, 
Old Cham, the solar Deity, vviio dwells 
Aloft, yet in a tilting vessel rode, 
When universal sea the mountains over- 
flowed. 

Why speak of Roman Pomps , the haughty 

claims 
Of Chiefs triumphant after ruthless wars ; 
The feast of Neptune— and the Cereal 

Games, 
With images, and crowns, and empty cars; 
The dancing Salii — on the shields of Mars 
Smiting with fury ; and a deeper dread 
Scattered on all sides by the hideous jars 
Of Corybantian cymbals, while the head 
Of Cybcle was seen, sublimely turreted! 

At length a Spirit more subdued and soft 
Appeared — to govern Christian pageantries : 
The Cross, in calm procession, borne aloft 
Moved to the chant of sober litanies. 
Even such, this day, came wafted on the 

breeze 
From a long train— in hooded vestments 

fair 
Enwrapt — and winding, between Alpine 

trees 
Spiry and dark, around their House of prayer, 
Below the icy bed of bright Argentieke. 

Still in the vivid freshness of a dream. 
The pageant haunts me as it met our eyes' 
Still, with those white-robcd Shapes — 3 

living Stream, 
The glacier Pillars join in solemn guise 
For the same service, bv mysterious tics 
Numbers exceeding credible account 
Of number, pure and silent Votari©?- 



304 



POEMS OF THE iMAG/N AT/CUV. 



Issuing or issued from a windy fount ; 
The impenetrable heart of tliat exalted 
Mount ! 

They, t<ra, who send so far a holy t;leam 
While they the Church engird with motion 

slow, 
A product of that awful Mountain seem, 
Poiued from his vaults of everlasting snow ; 
Not virgin lilies marshalled in bright row, 
Not swans descending with the stealthy tide, 
A livelier sisterly resemblance shuw 
Than the fair Forms, that in long order 

glide, 
Bear tc the glacier 1 and — those Shapes aloft 

described. 

Trembling, I look upon the secret springs 
Of that licentious craving in the mind 
To act the God among external things. 
To bind, on apt suggestion, or unbind ; 
And marvel not that anli'|ue Faith incline 1 
To crowd the world with metamorphosis. 
Vouchsafed in pity or in wrath assigneil ; 
Such insolent temptations would'st thou 

miss, 
Avoid these sights , noi brood o'er Fable's 

dark abyss ! 



ELEGIAC STANZAS. 

The lamented Youtli wliose untimely death 
gave occasion to tiiese elegi:ic verses was P'red- 
erick William Goddard, from Boston in North 
America. He was in his twentieth year, and 
had resided for some time with a clergyman in 
the neighborhood of Geneva for the comple- 
tion of his education. Accomiianied by a fel- 
low-pupil, a native of Scotland, he had just set 
<int on a Swiss tour when it was his misfortune 
to fall in with a fnend of mine who was hasten- 
ing to join our party. The travellers, after 
spending a day together on the road from 
Berne and at Soleure, took leave of each other 
at night, the young men having intended to 
proceed directly to Zurich. But early in the 
morning my friend found his new acquaintances, 
who were informed of the object of his |ourney, 
and tlie friends lie was m pursuit of, equipjied 
to accomjiany him. We met at Lucerne the 
succeeding evening, and Mr- G and his feilow- 
student became ni consequence our travelling 
comi^anions for a couple of days. We ascended 
the Righi together; and, after contemplating 
the sunrise from that noble mountain, we sepa- 
rated at an hour and on a spot well suited to 
the parting of those who were to meet no more. 
O'r party descended through the valley of our 
2^jay of the Snow, and our late comiianions, to 
.Art. We fiad hoped to meet in a few weeks at 



Geneva; but on the third succeeding day (on 
the 2ist of August) Mr. Goddard perished, 
being overset ma boat while crossing tlie lake 
of Zurich. His companion saved himself by 
swimming, and was hospitably received in ih>t 
mansion of a Swiss gentleman (.M. Keller) 
situated on the eastern coast of tlie lake, 'riie 
corpse of poor Goddard was cast ashore on the 
estate of the same gentleman, who generously 
performed all the rites of hospitality which 
could be rendered to the dead as well as to the 
living. He caused a handsome mural moiui- 
ment to be erected in the church of Kiisnacht, 
which records the premature fate of the young 
American, and on the shores loo of the lal<e the 
traveller may read an mscription pointing otit 
the spot where the body was deposited by the 
waves. 

Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells, 
Rude Nature's Pilgrims did we go. 
From the dread summit of the Queen * 
Of mountains, through a deep ravine, 
Where, in her holy chapel, dwells 
" Our Lady of the Snow " 
The sky was blue, the air was nnld , 
Free were the streams and green the 

bowers ; 
As if, to rough assaults unknown, 
The genial spot had rver shown 
A countenance that as sweetly smiled — 
The face of summer hours. 

And we were gay, our liearts at ease ; 
With pleasure dancing through the frame 
We journeyed ; all we knew of care— 
Our path that straggled here and there; 
Of trouble— but the fluttering breeze ; 
Of Winter— but a name. 

If foresight could have rent tlie veil 
Of tbree short days— but bush— no more! 
Calm is the grave, and calmer none 
Than that to winch thy cares are gone, 
Thou Victim of the stormy gale; 
Asleep on Zurich's shore I 

OhGoDDARu! what art thou .'—a name— 
A sunbeam followed by a sliade ! 
Nor more, for aught that time sujiplies. 
The great, the experienced, and the wise; 
Too much from this frail earth we claim, 
And therefore are betrayed. 

We met, while festive mirth ran wild, 
Where, from a deep lake's mightv urn, 
Forth slips, like an enfrancbised slave, 
A sea-green river, proud to lave. 
With current swift and undcfiled, 
The towers of old Luckrne. 

* Mount Righi— Regina Montimu, 



POEMS OF THE rMAGINATlOI^. 



505 



We parted upon solemn ground 
Far-lifted towards tlie unlading sky : 
But all our thoughts were ilieii of Earth, 
That .^:ves to common pleasures birth ; 
And nothing in our hearts we found 
That prompted even a sigh. 

Fetch, sympathizing Powers of air, 
Fetch, ye that post j'er seas and lands, 
Herbs moistened by V'lrginian dew, 
A most untimely grave to strew, 
Whose turf may never know the care 
.Of kindred human hands ! 

Beloved by every gentle Muse 

He left his Transatlantic home : 

Europe, a realized romance, 

Had Oldened on his eager glance • 

What present bliss !— what golden views! 

Wh.at stores for years to come! 

Though lodged within no vigorous frame 
.'lis soul her daily tasks renewed, 
Blithe as the lark on sun gilt wings 
High poised— or as the wren that sings 
In shady places, to procl? 
Her modest gratitude. 

Not vain is sadly-uttered praise ; 
The words of truth's memorial vow 
Are sweet as morning fragrance shed 
From Howers mid Goldau's ruins bred ; 
As evening's fondly-lingering rays 
On Rig Hi's silent brow. 

Lamented Youth ! to thy cold clay 
Fit obsequies the Stranger paid ; 
Ami pirty shall guard the Stone 
Which hath not left the spot unknown 
Where the wild waves resigned their prey- 
And tJiat which marks thy bed. 

And, when thy Mother weeps for Thee, 
Lost Youth ! a solitary Mother; 
This tribute from a casual Friend 
A not unwelcome aid may lend. 
To feed the tender luxury, 
The rising pang to smother. 



SKY-PROSi'ECT— FROM THE PLAIN Ol- 
FRANCE. 

Lo! in the burning west, the craggy nape 
Of a proud Ararat ! and, thereupon, 
The Ark, her melancholy voyage done ' 
Von rampant cloud mimics ,. lion's shape , 
There, combats a huge crocodile — agape 



A golden spear to swallow ! and that brovyn 
And massy grove, so near yon blazing 

town, 
Stirs and recedes — destruction to escape ' 
Yet all is harmless — as the Elysian shades 
Where Spirits dwell in undisturbed repose 
Silently disappears, or quickly fades: 
Meek Nature's evening comment on the 

shows 
That for oblivion take their daily birth 
From all the fuming vanities of Earth 1 

XXXV. 

ON BEING STRANDED NEAR THE HARIiOR 
OF 1 OULOGNE. 

Why cast ye back upon the Gallic shore, 

Ye furious waves ! a patriotic Son 

Of England — who in hope her coast had 

won, 
llis project crowned, his ])leasant travel 

o'er ? 
Well— let him i>ace thi-> noted beach once 

more, 
That gave the Roman his triumphal sliells j 
That saw the Corsicaii his cap and bells 
Haughtily shake, a dreaming; Conqueror ! — 
Enough ; my Country's cliffs 1 can behold, 
And proudly think, beside the chafing sea, 
Of checked amlMtion, tyranny controlled, 
And fr.lly cursed with endless memory •. 
These local recollections ne'er can cloy ; 
Such ground I from my very lieart enjoy ! 

XXX vi. 

AFTER LANDING — THE VALLEY OF 

DOVER. Nov., 1820. 

Where be the noisy followers of the game 
Which faction breeds ; the turmoil wiiere.'' 

that passed 
Through Europe, echoing rrom the news- 
man's blast. 
And filled our hearts with grief for Eng 

land's shame 
Peace greets us ;— rambling on without an 

aim 
We mark majestic herds of cattle, free 
To ruminate, couched on the grassy lea ; 
And hear far-off the mellow horn proclaim 
The Season's harmless pastime. Ruder 

sound 
Stirs not ; enrapt I gaze with strange de- 
light, 
While consciousnesses, not to be disowned, 
Here only serve a feeling to invite 
That lifts the spirit to a calmer height. 
And makes this rural stillness more pra 
found. 



300 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION-. 



XXXVII. 

AT DOVER. 

From ll.e Pier's head, musing, and with 

increase 
Of wonder, I have watched this sea-side 

Town, 
Under the wliite cliff's battlemented crown, 
Hushed to a depth of more than Sabbath 

peace : 
The streets and quaj's are thronged, but 

why disown 
Their natural utterance . whence this 

strange release 
From social noise — silence elsewhere un 

known ? — 
A Spirit whispered, " Let all wonder cease, 
Ocean's o'erpowering murmurs iiave set 

free 
Thy sense from pressure of life's common 

dm ; 
As the dread V^oice that speaks from out 

the sea 
Of (^od's eternal Word the Voice of Time 
Doth deaden, shocks of tumult, shrieks of 

crinu\ 
The shouts of folly, and the groans of sin." 



DESULTORY ST.\NZAS, 

UPON RECEIVING THE PRECEDING 
SHEETf FROM THE PRESS, 

Is then the final page before me spread 
Nor further outlet left to mind or heart? 
Presumptuous Book I too forward to be 

read. 
How can I give thee license to depart } 
One tribute more . unbidden feelings start 
Forth from their coverts , slighted objects 

i';se ; 
My spirit is the scene of such wild art 
As on Parnassus rules, when lightning flies, 
Visibly leading on the thunder's harmonies 

All that I saw returns upon my view. 
All that 1 heard comes back upon my ear, 
All that 1 felt this moment doth renew; 
And where the foot with no unmanly fear 
Recoiled — and wings alone could travel — 

there 
1 move at ease; and meet contented themes 
Tli.it press ujion me, crossing the career 
Of rscuUegtion:} vivid as the dreams 



Of midnight, — cities, plains, forests, and 
mighty streams. 

Where Mortal never breathed I dare to sit 
Among the interior Alps, gigantic crew, 
Who triumphed o'er diluvian power — and 

yet 
What are they but a wreck and residue, 
Whose only business is to perish ! — true 
To which sad course, tliese wrinkled Sons 

of Time 
Labor their proper greatness to "^uhdue; 
S]:)eakmg of death alone, b(.iieath a clime 
Where life and rapture How in plenitude 

sublime. I 

Fancy hath flung for me an airy bridge 1 

Across thy long deep Valley, furious 

Rhone ! 
Arch that liere rests upon the granite ric'.ge 
Of Monte Rosa — titcre on frailer stone L 

Of secondary birth, the jiing-frau's cone , I 

And, from that arch, down-looking en the • 

Vale 
The aspect I behold of every zone ; 
k sea of foliage, tossing with the gale, 
r>lithe Autumn's purple crown, and 

Winter's Icy mail ! 

Far as St. M.aukice, from yon eastern 

I'ORKS,* 

Down the main avenue my sight can range : 
And all its branchy vales, and all that lurks 
Wit5iin them, church, and town, and liut, 

and grange, 
For fny enjoyment meet in vision strange ; 
Snows, torrents; — to the region's utmost 

bound, 
Life, Death, in amicable interchange ', — 
But list! the avalanche — the hush profound 
That follows — yet more awful than that 

awful sound ! 

Is not the chamois suited to his place ? 
The eagle worthy of her ancestry .'' 
— Let Empires fall ; but ne'er shall Ve dis- 
grace 
Your noble birthright, ye that occcpy 
Your council-seats beneath the open sky, 
On Sarncn's Mount, there judge of ht and 

right. 
In simple democratic majesty; 
Soft breezes fannmg your rough brows— th<^ 

might 
And purity of nature spread before youl 
siaht! 



* At the head o{ the Vallais. 



POEMS OF' THF I MAG I NATION. 



0O7 



From tliis appropriate Court, renowned 
Lucerne 

Calls me to pace her honored Bridge — tliat 
cheers 

The Patriot's heart with pictures rude and 
stern, 

An uncouth Chronicle of glorious years. 

Like portraiture, from loftier source, en- 
dears 

That work of kindred frame, which spans 
the lake 

Just at the point of issue, where it fears 

'J'lie form and motion of a stream to take ; 

Where it begins to stir, yet voiceless as a 
snake. 

Volumes of sound, from the Cathedral 

rolled, 
Tin's long-roofed Vista penetrate — but sec, 
One after one, its tablets, that unfold 
The whole design of Scripture history ; 
From the first tasting of the fatal Tree, 
Till the bright Star appeared in eastern 

skies. 
Announcing, One was born mankind* to 

free ; 
His acts, his wrongs, his final sacrifice ; 
Lessons for every heart, a Bible for all eyes. 



Our pride misleads, our timid likings kill. 
— Long may these homely Works devised 

of old, 
These simple efforts of Helvetian skill, 
Aid, with congenial influence, to uphold 
The State,— the Country's destiny to 

mould ; 
Turning, for them who pass, the common 

dust 
Of servile opportunity to gold ; 
Filling the soul with sentiments august— 
The beautiful, the brave, the holy, and the 

just! 

No more ; Time halts not in his noiseless 
march — 

Nor turns, nor winds, as doth tl.e liquid 
flood ; 

Life slips from underneath us, like that 
arch 

Of airy workmanship whereon we stood, 

Earth stretched below, heaven in our neigh- 
borhood. 

Go forth, my little Book ! pursue thy way ; 

Go forth, and please the gentle and the 
good ; 

Nor be a whisper stifled, if it say 

That treasures, yet untouched, may grace 
some future Lay. 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 



TO HENRY CRABB ROBINSON. 



'-. OMPANION ! by whose buoyant Spirit 

cheered. 
In whose experience trusting, day by day 
Treasures 1 gained with zeal that neither 

feared 
The toils nor felt the crosses of the way, 
Rydal Mount, /-V^J. 14M, 1842. 



These records take : and happy should 1 Ix* 
Were but the Gift a meet Return to thee 
For kindnesses that never ceased to flow, 
And prompt self-sacrifice to which I owe 
Far more than any heart but mine can 
know. 

W. Wordsworth. 



The Tour of which the following Poems are very inadequate remembrances was shortenecT 
by report, too well founded, of the prevalence of Cholera at Naples. To make some amends for 
wliat was reluctantly left unseen in the South of Italy, we visited the Tuscan Sanctuaries among 
the Apeuniues, and the principal Italian Lakes among the Alps. Neither of those lakes, nor o3 



308 



fOBMS OF THE nr/rTMA-nnA- 



Venice, is there any notice in these Poems, chiefly because 1 have touched upon fh<»m ("isrwhere. 
?et", in particular, " Descriptive Sketclies," '* Memorials of a Tour on the CoiiliDcut in 1820," 
aola Sonnet upon the extinction of the Venetian Republic. 



MUSINGS NEAR AOUAPENDENT. 

April, 1S37. 

Ve Apennines ! witli all your fertile vales 
Deeply embosomed, and your windmg 

shores 
Of either sea, an Islander by birth, 
A Mountaineer by liabit, would resound 
Your praise, m meet accordance with ycnir 

clamis 
Bestowed by Nature, or from man's great 

deeds 
Inherited ; — presumptuous thought ! — it 

fled 
Like vapor, like a towering cloud, dissolved. 
Not, therefore, shall my mind givt way to 

sadness ; — 
Von snow-white torrent-fall, plumb down it 

drops 
Vet ever hangs or seems to hang in air, 
Lulling the leisure of tiiat high perched 

town, 
Aqua PENDENTE, in her kiftv site 
Its neighbor and its namesake — town, and 

flood 
Forth tlasliing out of its own gloomy chasm 
Bright sunbeams — the fresh verdure of tins 

lawn 
Strewn witli gray rocks, and on the hori- 
zon's verge. 
O'er intervenient waste, through glimmer- 
ing ha'ze. 
Unquestionably kenned, that cone-shaped 

hill 
With fractured sumrnit, no indifferent sight 
To travellers, from such comforts as are 

thine, 
Bleak Radicofam ! escaped with joy — 
These are before me ; and the varied scene 
May well suffice, till noon-tide's sultry heat 
Relax, to fix and satisfy the mind 
Passive yet pleased. What ! with this 

I'>rooin in flower 
Close at my side ! She bids me fly to greet 
Her sisters, soon like her to be attired ^ 
With golden blossoms opening at the feet 
Of my own Fairfield. The glad greeting 

given, 



Given with a voice and by a look returned 
Of old companionship, Time counts not 

minutes 
Ere, tiom accustomed paths, familiar fields, 
The local lienius hurries me aloft. 
Transported over tha< cloud-woomg iidl, 
Seat Sandal, a fond suitor of the clouds. 
With dreaiTi-like smoothness, to llelvellyn's 

top, 
J here to alight upon crisp moss, and range 
Obtaining ampler boon, at every step. 
Of visual sovereignty — hihs multitudinous, 
(Not Apennine can boast of fairer) hills 
I'ride of two nations, wood and lake and 

plains. 
And prospect right below of deep coves 

shaped 
By skeleton arms, that, from the mountain's 

. trunk 
Extended, clasp the winds, with mutual 

moan 
Struggling for liberty, while undismayed 
The shepheKi struggles with them. Onward 

thence 
And downward by the skirt of Greenside 

fell, 
And by Glem iddmg screes, and low Glen- 
I coign, 

' Places forsaken now. though loving still 
j The muses, as tliey loved tlieni in the days 
1 Of the old minstrels and the border baids. — 
But here am 1 fast bound ; and let it pass, 
I The simple raptur-^ - who that travels far 

'J"o feed his mind with watchful eyes could 
' share 

Or wish to share it ?— One there siirelv was, 
i " The Wizard of the North," witii anxious 
I hope 

Brought to this genial climate, wlu n 

disease 
Preyed upon body and mind— yet not the 

less 
Had his sunk eye kindled at those dear 

words 
That spake of bards and minstrels ; and his 

spirit 
Mad flown with mine to old Helvellyn's 

brow 
Where once together, in his day of strength, 
We stood rejoicmg, as if earth were free 
From sorrow, like the sky above our heads. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGIJVATION, 



309 



Years followed years, and when, upon the 

eve 
Of his last going tiom fwced-side, thought 

turned. 
Or by another's synijuthy was led, 
To this bright lantl, Hope was for hini no 

friend, 
Knowledge no help, Imagination shaped 
No promise Still, in more than ear-deep 

seats, 
l-iurvives for me, and cannot but survive 
riie tone of voice which wedded burrowed 

words 
To sadness not their own, when, with laint 

smile 
Forced by intent to take from speech its 

edge. 
He said, " When I am there, although 'tis 

fair, 
'Twill be anotlicr Variow."' Prophecy 
More than fulfilled, as gay Campania's 

sliores 
Soon witnessed, and the city of scvan hills. 
Her sparkling fountains, and her mouldering 

tombs ; 
And more than all, that Emmence which 

showed 
Her splendors, seen, not felt, the while he 

stood 
A few short steps (painful they were) apart 
From Tasso"s Convent-haven, and retired 

j;rave. 



Peace to their Spirits ! why should Poesy 
Yield To the lure of vain regret, and hover 
In gloom on wings with confidence out- 
spread 
To move in sunshine! — Utter thanks, my 

Soul : 
Tempered with awe, and sweetened by com- 
passion 
For them who in the shades of sorrow 

dwell 
That 1— so near the term to human life 
Appointed by man's common heritage, 
Frail as the frailest, one withal (if that 
Deserve a thought) but little known to 

fame- 
Am free to rove where Nature's loveliest 

looks. 
Art's noblest f^lics, history's rich bequests, 
h'ailcd to inanimate and but feebly cheered 
The whole world's Darling — free to rove at 

■•.vill 
O'er high and low, and if requiring rest, 
Rest from enjoyment only. 



Thanks poured forth 
For what thus far hath blessed my wander- 
ings, thanks 
Fervent but humble as the lij^s can breathe 
W'liere gladness seems a duty — let mc 

guard 
Tiiose seeds of expectation which the fiuit 
Already gathered in this favored Land 
F.nlolds within its coie. The taith 1)l' mine 
i'iiat lie who guides and governs all, .ii> 

proves 
When gratitude, though discijilmed to look 
Bt.-\ond these transient spheres, dotii wear 

a crown 
Of ca:thly hope put on with trembling hand; 
Nor IS least pleased, we trust, when golden 

beams. 
Rellectcd tluough the mists of age, liom 

hours 
Of innocent delight, remote »r recent. 
Shoot but a little way— 'tis all they can — 
Into the doubtful future. Who would keep 
Power must resolve to cleave to it tluough 

life. 
Else it deserts him, surely as he lives. 
Saints would not grieve nor guardian angels 

frov.n 
If one — while tossed, as was my ;ot to be, 
In a frail bark urged bv two slender o.irs 
Over waves rougli and deep, that, when they 

broke, 
Dashed their white foam against the palace 

walls 
Of Genoa the super'o — should there Ir- led 
To meditate upon his own appointed tnsks, 
However humble in themselves, with 

thoughts 
Raised and sustained by memory of Ilim 
WHyi ottcntimes within those narrow bounds 
Rocked on the surge, there tried his spirit's 

strength 
And grnsp of purpose, long ere sailed his 

ship 
To lay a new world open. 

Nor less prized 
Be those impressions which incline the 

heart 
To mild, to lowlv, and to seeming weak. 
I^cnd that way her desires. The dew, the 

storm — 
The dew whose moistftre fell in gentle 

drops 
On the small hyssop destined to become, 
15y Hebrew orclinance devoutly kept, 
A purifying instrument — the storm 
That shook on Lebanon the cedar's top, 
And as it shook, cnal)ling the blind roote 



5TO 



POEMS OP THE IMACTNATION. 



Further to force their way, endowed its 

trunk 
With magnitude and strength fit to uphold 
Tlie glorious temple — did alike proceed 
From tlie same gracious will, v.ere both an 

offspring 
Of bounty infinite. 

Between powers that aim 
Higher to lift their lofty heads, impelled 
By no profane ambition, Powers that tiirive 
By *=onflict and their opposites, that trust 
In lowliness — a mid-way tract there lies 
Of thoughtful sentiment for every mind 
Pregnant with good. Young, Middle-aged, 

^and Old, 
From century on to century must have 

known 
The emotion — nay, more fitly were it said — 
The blest trancjuillity that sunk so deep 
Into my spirit, when 1 paced, enclosed 
In Pisa's Campo Santo, the smooth floor 
Of its Arcades paved with sepulchral slabs, 
And through each window's open fret-work 

looked 
O'er the blank Area of sacred earth 
Fetched from M,^iint Calvary, or haply 

delved 
In precincts nearer to the Saviour's tomb. 
By hands of men, humble as brave, who 

fought 
For its deliverance — a capacious field 
That to descendants of the dead i . holds 
And to all living mute memento breathes, 
More touching far than aught which on the 

walls 
Is pictured, or their epitaphs can speak, 
Of the changed City's long-departed power, 
Glory, and wealth, which, perilous as they 

are. 
Here did not kill, but nourished, l*iety. 
And, high above that length of cloistral 

roof. 
Peering in air and backed by azure sky. 
To kindred contemplations ministers 
The Baptistery's dome, and that which 

swells 
From the Cathedral pile ; and with the 

twain 
Conjoined in prospect mutable or fixed 
f As hurry on in eagerness the feet. 
Or pause) the summit of the Leaning-tower. 
Nor less remuneration waits on him 
WIio having left the Cemetery stands 
In the Tower's shadow, of decline and fall 
Admonished not without some sense of 

fear. 
Fear that soon vanish-us before the sight 



Of splendor unextinguished, pomp un« 

scathed. 
And beauty unimpaired. Grand in itself, 
And for itself, the assemblage, grand and 

fair 
To view, and for the mind's consenting eye 
A- type of age in man, upon its front 
Bearing the world-acknowledged evidence 
Of past exploits, nor fondly after more 
Struggling against the stream of destiny, 
But with its peaceful majesty content. 
— Oh what a spectacle at every turn 
The Place unfolds, from pavement skinned 

witli moss. 
Or grass-grown spaces, where the heaviesf- 

foot 
Provokes U'^ echoes, but must softly tread ; 
Where Solitude with Silence paired stops 

short 
Of Desolation, and to Ruin's scythe 
Decay submits not. 

But where'er my steps 
Shall wander, chiefly let me cull with care 
Those images of genial beauty, oft 
Too lovelv to be pensive in themselves. 
But by reflection made so, which do best 
And fitliest serve to crown with fragrant 

wreaths 
Life's cup when almost filled with years. 

like mine. 
— How lovely robed in forenoon light and 

shade. 
Each ministering to each, didst thou appear 
Savona, Queen of territory fair . 
As aught that marvellous coast thro' all its 

length 
Yields to the Stranger's eye. Remembrance 

holds 
As a selected treasure thy one cliff. 
That, while it wore for melancholy crest 
A shattered Convent, yet rose proud to 

have 
Clinging to its steep sides a thousand lierbs 
And sinubs, whose pleasant looks gave proof 

how kind 
The breatli of air can be where earth haf 

else 
Seemed churlish. And behold, both far and 

near. 
Garden and field all decked with orange 

bloom, 
And peach and citron, in Spring's mildest 

breeze 
Expanding ; and, along the smooth shore 

curved 
Into a natural port, a tideless sea, 



POEMS OF THE TMAGTNATION: 



3" 



To tliat mild breeze witli motion and with 

voice 
Softly responsive ; and, attuned to all 
Those vernal cliarms of sight and sound, 

appeared 
Smooth space of turf which from the guar- 
dian fort 
Sloped seaward, turf whose tender April 

green, 
In coolest climes too fugitive, might even 

here 
Plead with the sovereign Sun for longer 

stay 
Than his unmitigated beams allow. 
Nor plead in vain, if beauty could preserve, 
From mortal change, aught that is born on 

earth 
Or doth on time depend. 

While on the brink 
Of that high Convent-crested cliff 1 stood, 
Modest Savona ! over all did brood 
A pure poetic Spirit — as the breeze, 
Mild — as the verdure, fresh — the sunshine, 

bright— 
Tliy gentle Chiabrera ! — not a stone. 
Mural or level with the trodden floor, 
In Church or Chapel, if my curious quest 
Missed not the truth, retains a single name 
Of young or old, warrior, or saint, or sage, 
To whose dear memories his sepulchral 

verse 
Paid simple tribute, such as might have 

flowed 
From the clear spring of a plain English 

iieart. 
Say rather, one in native fellowship 
With all who want not skill to couple grief 
With praise, as genuine admiration prompts. 
The grief, the praise, are served from their 

dust, 
Yet in his pacre the records of that worth 
Survive, uninjured ; — glory then to words. 
Honor to word-preserving Arts, and hail 
Yf kindred local influences that still. 
If Hope's familiar whispers merit faith, 
Await mv steps when they the breezy 

height 
Shall range of philosophic Tusculum ; 
Or Sabine vales explored inspire a wish 
To meet the shade of Horace by the side 
Of his Handusian fount ; or I invoke 
His presence to point out the spot where 

once ' 

He sate, and eulogized with earnest pen 
Peace, leisure, freedom, moderate desires; 
And all the immunities of rural life 
Extolled, behind Yacuna's crumbling fane. 



Or let me loiter, soothed with what is given 
Nor asking more, on tiiat delicious Bay, 
Parthenope's Domain — Virgilian haunt, 
Illustrated with never-dying verse. 
And, by the Poet's laurel-shaded tomb, 
Age after age to Pilgrims from all lands 
Endeared. 

And who — if not a man as cold 
In heart as dull in brain — while pacing 

ground 
Chosen by Rome's legendary Bards, high 

minds 
Out of her early struggles well inspired 
To localize heroic acts — could look 
Upon the spots with undelighted eye. 
Though even to their last syllable the Lays 
And very names of those who gave them 

birth 
Have perished ? — Verily, to her utmost 

depth. 
Imagination feels wha* Reason fears not 
To recognize, the lasting virtue lodged 
In those bold fictions, that, by deeds as- 
signed 
To the Valerian, Fabian, Curian Race, 
And others like in fame, created Powers 
With attributes from History derived, 
By Poesy irradiate, and yet graced, 
Through marvellous felicity of skill, 
With something more propitious to high 

aims 
Than either, pent within her separate 

sphere. 
Can oft with justice claim. 

And not disdaining 
Union with those primeval energies 
To virtue consecrate, stoop ye from your 

height 
Christian Traditions ! at my Sjiirit's call 
Descend, and, on the brow of ancient Rome 
As she survives in ruin, manifest 
Your glories mingled with the brightest 

hues 
Of her memorial lialo, fading, fading. 
But never to be extinct while Earth 

endures. 
O come, if undishonored by the prayer. 
From all her Sanctuaries ! — Open for my 

feet 
Ye Catacombs, give to mine eyes a glimpse 
Of the Devout, as, mid your glooms con- 
vened 
For safety, they of yore enclasped the 

Cross 
On knees that ceased from trenibling, or 

intoned 
Their orisons with voices half-suppres>*id, 



312 



POEMS OF Tim nTACINATlON. 



But sometimes heard, or fancied to be 

heard, 
Even at this hour 

And thou Mamertine prison, 
Into that vault receive me from whose 

depth 
Issues, revealed in no presumptuous vision, 
Albeit, httmg human to divine, 
A Saint, the Church's Kuck, the mystic 

Keys 
Grasped m his hand ; and lo ! with upright 

sword 
Prefigurms; his own impendent doom, 
The Apostle ot tiie (vcntiles ; both prepared 
To suffer pams with heathen scorn and hate 
Inflicted ;— blessed Men, for so to Heaven 
They follow their dear Lord ! 

Time flows— nor winds, 
Nor stagnates, nor precipitates his course, 
But many a benefit borne upon his breast 
For human-kind sinlfs out of sight, is gone, 
No one knows how ; nor seldom is put forth 
An angry arm that snatches good away, 
Never perhaps to reappear. The Stream 
Has to our generation brought and brings 
Innumerable gains ; yet we, who now 
Walk in the light of day, pertain full surely 
To a chilled age, most pitiably shut out 
From that which is and actuates, by forms, 
Abstractions, and by lifeless fact to fact 
Minutely linked with diligence uninspired, 
Unrectified, un^uided, unsustained, 
By godlike insight. To this fate is doomed 
Science, wide-spread and spreading still as 

be 
Her conquests, in the world of sense made 

known. 
So with the internal mind it fares ; and so 
With morals, trusting, in contempt or fear 
Of Vital principle's controlling law, 
To her purblind guide Expediency ; and so 
Suffers religious faith. Elate with view 
Of what is won, we overlook or scorn 
The best that should keep pace with it, and 

must, 
Else more and more the general mind will 

droop. 
Even as if bent on perishing. There lives 
No faculty within us which the Soul 
Can spare, and humblest earthly Weal 

demands, 
For dignity not placed bcvond her reach. 
Zealous co-operation of all means 
Given or acquired, to raise us from the mire, 
And liberate our hearts from low pursuits. 
Py gross Utilities enslaved we need 
More of ennobling impulse from the past, 



If to the future aught of good must come 
Sounder and therefore hoher than the ends 
Which, in the giddiness of self-applause, 
We covet as supreme O grant the crown 
That Wisdom wears, or take his treacherous 

staff 
From Knowledge! — If the Muse, whom ] 

have served 
This day, be mistress of a single pearl 
Fit to be placed in that pure diadem ; 
Then, not in vain, under these chestnut 

boughs 

Reclined, shall I have yielded up my soul 
To transports from the secondary founts * 

Flowing of time and place, and paid td ■ 

both -I 

Due homage ; nor shall fruitlessly havfc 

striven, 
By love of beauty moved, to enshrine in 

verse 
Accordant meditations, which in times 
Vexed and disordered, as our own, may 

shed 
Influence, at least among a scattered few, 
To soberness of mind and peace of heart 
Friendly ; as here to my repose hath been 
This flowering broom's dear neighborhood 

the light 
And murmur issuing from yon pendent 

flood. 
And all the varied landscape. Let us now 
Rise, and to-morrow greet magmhcent 

Rome. 



THE PINE OF MONTE MARIO AT ROME. 

1 SAW far off the dark top of a Pine 
Look like a cloud— a slender stem the tie 
That bound it to its native earth— poised 

high 
'Mid evening hues, along the horizon line 
Striving in peace each other to outshine 
But wiien I learned the Tree was living 

there, 
Saved from the sordid axe by Beaumont's 

care. 
Oh, what a gush of tenderness was mine ! 
The rescued Pine-tree, with its sky so 

bright 
And cloud-like beauty, rich m thoughts cf 

home, 
Death-parted friends, and days too swift in 

riight, 
Supplanted the whole majesty of Rome 
(Then first apparent from the Pinciai) 

Height) 
Crowned with St. Peter's everlasting Dome. 



FORMS OF THE lMAGINATTOh\ 



3^3 



AT ROME. I 

Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian'Hill ? i 

Von petty Steep in truth the learful Rock, 
Tarpeian named of yore, and keeping still I 
That name, a local P.iantom proud to mock 
The Traveller's expectation ?— Could our 

Will j 

Destroy the ideal Power within, 'twere done ! 
Thro' what men see and touch,— slaves 

wandering on. 
Impelled by thirst of all but Heaven-taught 

skill. 
Full oft, our wisli obtained, deeply we sigh ; 
Vet not unrecompensed are they who learn, 
From tliat depression raised, to mount on 

high 
With stronger wing, more clearly to discern 
Eternal things ; and, if need be, defy 
Change, with a brow not insolent, though 

stern. 

IV. 
AT ROME, — REGRETS. — IN ALLUSION TO 
NIEHUHR AND OTHER MODERN HIS- 
TORIES. 

Those old credulities, to nature dear, 
Shall they no longer bloom upqn the stoc^ 
Of History, stript naked as a rock 
'Mid a dry desert ? What is it we hear ? 
The g!ory of Infant Rome must disappear. 
Her morning splendors vanish, and their 

place 
Know them no more. If Truth, who veiled 

her face 
Wit!) those bright beams yet hid it not, 

must steer 
Henceforth a humbler course perplexed and 

slow ; 
One solace yet remains for us who came 
Into this world in days when story lacked 
Severe research, that in our hearts we know 
How, for exciting youth's heroic flame, 
Assent is power, belief the soul of fact. 



CONTINUED. 

Complacent Fictions were they, yet the 

same 
Involved a history of no doubtful sense, 
History that proves by inward evidence 
From what a precious source of truth it 

came. 
Ne'er <ould the boldest Eulogist have dared 



Such deeds to paint, such characters t«a 

frame. 
But for coeval sympathy prepared 
To greet with instant faith their loftiest 

claim. 
None but a noble people could have loved 
Flattery in Ancient Rome's pure-minded 

style ; 
Not in like sort the Runic Scald v.';vs 

moved ; 
He, nursed 'mid savage passions that dehle 
Humanity, sang feasts that well might call 
For the blood-thirsty mead of Odin's riot- 
ous Hall. 

VI. 

plea for the historian. 
Forbear to deem the Chronicler unwise. 
Ungentle, or untouched by seemly ruth. 
Who, gathering up all that Time's envious 

tooth 
Has spared of sound and grave realities. 
Firmly rejects thos^; dazzling flattcrieb. 
Dear as they are to unsuspecting Youth, 
rhat might have drawn down Clio from the 

skies 
To vindicate the majesty of truth 
Such was her oflficc while she walked with 

men, 
A Muse, who, not unmindful of her Sire 
All-ruling Jove, whate'er the theme might 

be 
Revered her Mother, sage Mnemosyne, 
And taught her faithful servants how the 

lyre 
Should animate, but not mislead, the pen. 



AT ROME. 

THEY~who have seen tiie noble Roman's 

scorn 
Break forth at thought of laying down his 

head, 
When the blank day is over, garreted 
In his ancestral palace, where, from morn 
To night, the desecrated floors are worn 
By feet of purse-proud strangers; they- 

who iiave read 
In one meek smile, beneath a peasant's 

shed. 
How patiently the weight of wrong is borne ; 
They — who have heard some learned Patriot 

treat 
Of freedom, with mind grasping the whole 

theme 
From ancient Rome, downwards through 

that bright dream 



314 



POEMS OF THE IMAGlXATrOiV. 



Of Commonwealtlis, eacli city a starlikcscat 
Of rival glory ; they— fallen Italy — 
Nor must, nor will, nor can, despair of 
Thee ! 

VIII. 
NEAR ROME, IN SIGHT OF ST. PETER's. 

Long has the dew been dried on tree and 

lawn ; 
O'er man and beast a not unwelcome boon 
Is shed, the languor of approaching noon, 
To shady rest withdrawing or withdrawn 
Mute arc all creatures, as this couchant 

fawn, 
S ivc insect-swarms that hum in air afloat, 
Save that the Cock is crowing, a shrill note. 
Startling and shrill as that which roused the 

dawn. 
— Heard in that hour, or when, as now, the 

nerve 
Shrinks from the note as from a mis-timed 

thing, 
Oft for a holy warning may it serve, 
Charged with remembrance of his sudden 

sting, 
Mis bitter tears, whose name the Papal 

Chair 
And yon resplcndant Church arc proud to 

bear. 

IX. 

AT AI.BANO. 

Days passed — and Monte Calvo would not 

clear 
His head from mist ; and, as the wind sobbed 

through 
Albano's dripping Ilex avenue. 
My dull forebodings in a Peasant's ear 
Found casual vent. She said, " Be of good 

cheer ; 
Our yesterday's procession did not sue 
In vain; the sky will change to sunny blue. 
Thanks to our Lady's grace." I smiled to 

hear. 
But not in scorn : — the Matron's Faith may 

lack 
The heavenly sanction needed to ensure 
Fulfilment ; but, we trust, her upward track 
Stops not at this low point, nor wants the 

lure 
Of flowers the Virgin without fear may 

own, 
For bv her Son's blest hand the seed was 

sown. 



Near Anio's stream, I spied a gentle Dove 
Pcrciicd on an olive branch, and heard her 

cooing 
'Mid new-born blossoms that soft airs wert 

wooing, 
While all things present told of joy and 

love. 
But restless Fancy left that olive grove 
To hail the exploratory Bird renewing 
Hope for the few, who, at the world's 

undoing. 
On the great flood were spared to live and 

move. 
O bounteous Heaven ; signs true as dove 

and bough 
Brought to the ark are coming evermore, 
Given though we seek them not, but, while 

we plough 
This sea of life without a visible shore, 
Do neither promise ask nor grace implore 
In what alone is ours, the living Now. 



FROM THE ALBAN HILLS LOOKING 
TOWARDS ROME. 

Forgive, illustrious Country ! these deep 

sighs, 
Heaved less for thy bright plains and hills 

bestrewn 
With monuments decayed or overthrown, 
For all that tottering stands or prostrate 

lies. 
Than for like scenes in moral vision shown. 
Ruin perceived for keener sympathies ; 
Faith crushed, yet proud of weeds, her gaudy 

crown ; 
Virtues laid low, and mouldering energies. 
Yet why prolong this mournful strain } — 

Fallen Power, 
Thy fortunes, twice exalted, might provoke 
Verse to glad notes prophetic of the hour 
When thou, uprisen, shalt break thy double 

yoke, 
And enter with prompt aid from the Most 

High, 
On the third stage of thy great destiny. 

XII. 
NEAR THE LAKE OF THRASYMENE. 

When here with Carthage Rome to conflict 

came, 
An earthquake, mingling with the battle's 

shock, 
Checkp'l not its rage; unfelt the ground dig 

roc.. 



POEMS OF THE TMACEXATION. 



315 



Sword dropped not, javelin kept its deadly 

aim. — 
Now all is sun-bright peace. Of that day's 

shame, 
Or glory, not a vesti2;e seems to endure, 
Save in this Rill that took from blood the 

name * 
Which yet it bears, sweet Stream! as crys- 
tal pure. 
S«i may all trace and sign of d^cds aloof 
From the true guidance of humanity, 
'J'hro' Time and N.aturc's influence, i)urify 
Their spirit ; or, unless they lor icpioof 
Or warning serve, thus let them all, on 

ground 
That gave them being, vanish to a sound. 

XIII. 
NEAR THE S.\ME LAKE. 

For action born, existing to be uied, 
Powers manifold we have that intervene 
To stir the heart that would too closely 

screen 
Her peace from images to pain allied. 
What wonder if at m.dnight, by the side 
Of Sanguinetto or broad Thrasymenc, 
The clang of arms is heard, and phantoms 

glide, 
Unhappy ghosts in troops by moonlight 

seen ; 
And singly thine, O vanquished Chief ! 

whose corse, 
Unburied, lay hid under heaps of slain : 
But who is He ? — the Conqueror. Would 

he force 
His way to Rome? Ah, no, — round hill 

and plain 
Wandering, he haunts, at fancy's strong com- 
mand. 
This spot — his shadowy death-cup in his 

hand 



THE CUCKOO AT LAVERN.A.. 
May 25TH, 1837. 

List — 'twas the Cuckoo — O with what de- 
light 

Heard I that voice ! and catch it now, 
though faint, 

Far off and faint, and melting into air. 

Yet not to be mistaken. Hark again ! 

Those louder cries give notice that the 
Bird, 



Sanguinetto. 



Although invisible as Echo's self, 

Is wheeling hitherward. 1 hanks, lu,yr^ 

Creature, 
For this unthought-of greeting ! 

While allured 
From vale to hill, from hill to vale led on. 
We have pursued, tlirough various lands, a 

long 
And pleasant course ; flower after flower 

has blown. 
Embellishing the ground that gave them 

birth 
With aspects novel to my sight : but still 
Most fair, most welcome, when they drank 

the dew 
In a sweet fellowship with kinds beloved. 
For old remembrance sake. And oft-. 

where Spring 
Display'd her richest blossoms among fdes 
Of orange-trees bedecked with glowing fruit 
Ripe for the hand, or under a thick shade 
Of Ilex, or, if better suited to tlic hour, 
The ligiitsome Olive's twinkling canopy — 
Oft have I heard the Nightingale and 

Thrush 
Blending as in a common English grove 
Their love-songs , but, where'er my feet 

might roam, 
Whate'er assemblages of new and old, 
Stiange and familiar, might beguile the 

way, 
A gratulation from that vagrant Voice 
Was wanting; — and most happily till now. 

For see, Laverna ! mark the far-famed 
Pile, 
High on the brink of that pre(..p.tous rock, 
Implanted like a Fortress, as in truth 
It is, a Christian Fortress, garrisoned 
In faith and hope, and dutiful obedience, 
By a few Monks, a stern society. 
Dead to the world and scorning earth-born 

joys, 
Nay— though the hopes that drew, the fears 

that drove, 
St Francis, far from Man's resort, to abidi 
Among these sterile heights of Apennine, 
Bound him, nor, since he raised yon House, 

have ceasecl 
To bind his spiritual Progeny, with ruies 
Stringent as flesh can tolerate and live ; 
His milder Genius (thanks to the good God 
That made us) over those severe restraints 
Of mind, that dread heart-freezing discip- 
line. 
Doth sometimes here predominate, and 
works 



3i6 



POEMS OF THE IMAGlNATIOl^. 



By unsought means for gracious purposes ; 
For earth througli heaven, for lieaven, by 

changeful earth, 
Ilhistrated, and inutally endeared. 

Rapt though He were above the power of 
sense, 
Familiarly, yet out of the cleansed heart 
Ot that once sinful Being overriovvcd 
On sun, moon, stirs, the nether elements, 
And every shape of creature they sustam. 
Divine affections ; and with beast and bird 
(Stilled from afar — such marvel story tells — 
r>v casual outbreak of his passionate words, 
And from tiieir own pursuits in field or 

grove 
Prawn to his side by look or act of love 
Humane, and virtue of his innocent life) 
J[c wont to hold companionship so free, 
So pure, so fraught with knowledge and de- 
light. 
As to be likened in his Followers' minds 
To that which our first Parents, ere the fall 
From their high state darkened the Earth 

vvitii fear, 
Held with all Kinds in Eden's blissful 
bowers 

Then question not that, 'mid the austere 

Band, 
Wlio breathe the air he breathed, tread 

where he trod. 
Some true Partakers of his loving spirit 
Do still survive, and, with those gentle 

hearts 
Consorted, Otlurs, in tlie power, the faith. 
Of a baptized imagination, prompt 
To catch from Nature's humblest monitors 
Whatfc'cr they bring of impulses sublime. 

Thus sensitive must be the Monk, though 

pale 
With fasts, with vir''s worn, depressed by 

years^ 
Whom in a sunny glade I chanced to see 
Upon a pine-tree's storm-uprooted trunk, 
Seated alone, with forehead sky-ward raised, 
Hands clasped above the crucifix he wore 
Appended to his bosom, and lips closed 
By the joint pressure of his musing mood 
And habit of his vow. That ancient Man — 
Nor haply less the Brother whom I marked. 
As we approached the Convent gate, aloft 
Looking tar forth from his aerial cell, 
A young Ascetic — Poet, Hero, Sa,e;e, 
He might have been. Lover belike he was — 
if they received into ^ conscious ear 



The notes whose first faint greeting startled 

me, 
Whose sedulous iteration thrilled with joy 
Mv heart— may have been moved like me 

to think, 
Ah 1 not like me who walk in the world's 

ways. 
On the great Prophet, stvled the Voice oj 

One 
CryiJtg amid the wilderness, and given, 
Now that their snows must melt, their heibs 

and flowers 
Revive, tlieir obstinate winter pass away. 
That awful name to Thee, thee, simple 

Cuckoo. 
Wandering in solitude, and evermore 
Foretelling and proclaiming, ere thou leave 
This thy last haunt beneath Italian skies 
To carry thy glad tidings over heights 
Still loftier, and to climes more near the 

Pole. 

Voice of the Desert, fare-thee-well ; sweet 

Bird! 
If that substantial title please thee more, 
Farewell .'—but go thy way, no need hast 

tiiou 
Of a good wish sent after thee ; from bower 
To bower as green, from sky to sky as 

clear. 
Thee gentle breezes waft — or airs that meet 
Thy course and sport around thee softly 

fan — 
Till Night, descending upon hill and vale, 
Grants to thy mission a brief term of silence, 
And folds thy pinions up in blest repose. 



AT THE CONVENT OF CAMAI.DOLI. 

Grieve for the Man who hither came be* 

reft, 
And seeking consolation from above; 
Nor grieve the less that skill to him was 

left 
To paint this picture of his lady-love : 
Can she, a blessed saint, the work approve ? 
And O, good lirethren of the cowl, a thing 
So fair, to wliich with peril he must cling, 
Destroy in pity, or with care remove. 
That bloom — those eyes — can they assist to 

bind 
Thoughts that would .stray from Heave ,»? 

The dream must cease 
To be ; by Faith, not sight, his soul must 

liv?; 
Else will the cnajnoured Monk too sureljP 

find 



POEMS OF TTTE IMACLVATIOIV. 



317 



How wide a space can part from inward 

peace 
The most profound repose his cell can give. 



CONTINUED. 

The world forsaken, all its busy cares 
And stirring interests sliunned witli desper- 
ate flight, 
All trust abandoned in the healing might 
Ot virtuous action ; all that courage dares, 
Labor accomplishes, or patience bears — 
Those helps rejected, they, whose minJs 

perceive 
How subtly works man's weakness, sighs 

may heave 
For such a One beset with cloistral snares. 
Fatlier of Mercy ! rectify his view, 
If witii his vows this object ill agree ; 
Shed over it thy grace, and thus subdue 
Imperious passion in a heart set free : — 
Tiiat earthly love may to herself be true. 
Give him a soul that cleaveth unto thee. 

XVII. 

AT THE EREMITE OR UPPER CONVENT 

OF CAMALDOLI. 

What aim had they, the Pair of Monks, in 

size 
Enormous, dragged, while side by side they 

sate. 
By panting steers up to this convent gate ? 
How, witii empurpled cheeks and pampered 

eyes, 
Dare tliey confront the lean austerities 
Of Brethren who, here fixed, on Jesu wait 
In sackcloth, and (iod's anger deprecate 
Through all that humbles tiesh and morti- 
fies.' 
Strange' contrast !— verily the v/orld of 

dreams. 
Where mingle, as for mockery combined, 
'i'hings in tlieir very essences at strife. 
Shows not a sight incongruous as tlie ex- 
tremes 
That everywhere, before the thoughtful 

mind, 
Meet on the solid ground of wakinc; life. 



XVIII. 

AT VALLOMBROSA. 

Tliick as autuuinal leaves that strew the 

brooks 
In Vullombrosa, where Etrurian sh.ides 
Hijih over-arched embower. — Pakadisu I.osr. 



" Vallomhrosa— I longec' in thy shadiest 
wood 

To slumber, reclined on the moss-coverec 
floor ! " 

Fond wish that was granted at last, and tht 
Flood, 

That lulled me asleep, bids me listen onc« 
more. 

Its murmur how soft ! as it falls down the 
steep. 

Near that Cell — yon sequestered Retreat 
higii in air — 

Where our Milton was wont lonely vigils to 
keep 

For converse with God, sought through 
study and prayer, 

Tiie Monks still repeat the tradition w'th 
pride, 

.And its truth who shall doubt .' for his Spirit 
is here ; 

In the cloud-piercing rocks doth her gran- 
deur abide. 

In the pines pointing heavenward her beauty 
austere ; 

In the flower besprent meadows his genius 
we trace 

Turned to humbler delights, in which youth 
might confide, 

Tiiat would yield him fit help while prefigur- 
ing that Place 

Wiiere, if Sin had not entered, Love never 
had died. 

When with life lengthened out came a de- 
solate time. 

And darkness and danger had compassed 
him round. 

With a thouglit lie would flee to these haunts 
of his prime, 

And here once again a kind shelter be found. 

[Muse 

And let me believe that when nightly liie 

Did waft him to Sion, the glorified hill. 

Here also, on some favored iieight, he 
w^ould choose 

To wander, and drink inspiration at will. 

Vallombrosa ! of thee I first heard in the 

page 
Of that holiest of Bards, and th.e name for 

my mind 
Had a musical charm, which the winter ot 

age 
Anil the changes it brings had no power to 

unbind. 
And now, ye Miltonian shades! undtr you 
1 re]ios(', nor am forced from sweit fancy Ic 

part, 



3tS 



POEMS OF THE IMACINATIOA\ 



Wiiile your leaves I behold and the brooks 

they will strew. 
And the realized vision is clasped to my 

heart. 

Even so, and unblamed, we rejoice as we 

may 
In Foims that must perish, frail objects of 

sense; 
Unblamed— if the Soul be intent on the 

day 
When the Being of Beings shall summon 

her hence 
For he and he only with wisdom is blest 
Who, gathering true pleasures wherever 

they grow, 
Looks up in all places, for joy or for rest, 
To the Fountam whence Time and Eternity 

flow, 

XIX. 

AT FLORENCE. 

Under the shadow of a stately Pile, 
Tlie dome of Florence, pensive and alone. 
Nor giving heed to aught that passed tlie 

while, 
1 stood, and gazed upon a marble stone. 
The laurell'd Dante's favorite seat. A 

throne. 
In just esteem, it rivals : though no style 
Be there of decoration to be'^uile 
The mind, dejiressed by thought of great- 
ness HuWM 
As a true man, who long had served the 

lyre, 
I gazed with earnestness, and dared n(j 

more. 
But in liis breast the mighty Poet bore 
A Patriot's heart, warm with undying fire. 
Bold with the tliought, in reverence 1 sate 

down, 
And,^ for a moment, filled that empty 

Throne. 

XX. 

BEFORE THE PICTURE OF THE BAPTIST, 
BY RAPHAEL, IN THE GALLERY AT 
FLORENCE. 

The Baptist might h.ive been ordained to 

cry 
Forth from the towers of that huge Pile, 

wherein 
Uis Father served Jehovah ; but how win 
Due audience, how for aught but scorn defy 
The obstinate pride and wanton revelry 
Of i4i<* Jerusalem below, her sin 



/\nd folly, if they witli united din 

Drown not at once mandate and prophecy? 

Therefore the Voice spake from the Desert, 

thence 
To Her, as to her opposite in peace. 
Silence, and holiness, and mnocence, 
To Her and to all Lands its warnmg sent 
Crying with earnestness that might not 

cease, 
" Make straight a higliway for the Lord— 

repent 1 " 



AT FLORENCE — FROM MICHAEL AN- 
GELO. 

Rapt above earth by power of one fair 

face, 
Hers in whose sway alone my heart de" 

lights, 
1 mingle with the blest on tiiose pure 

heights 
Where Man, yet mortal, rarely finds a 

place. 
With Him who made the Work that Woik 

accords 
So well, that by its help and through his 

grace 
I raise my thoughts, inform my deeds and 

words, 
Clasping her beauty in my soul's embrace. 
Thus, if from two fair eyes mine cannot 

turn, 
I feel how in their presence doth abide 
Light which to God is both the way and 

guide ; 
And, kindling at their lustre, if I burn, 
My noble fire emits tlie joyful ray 
That through the realms of glory shines for 

aye, 

XXII. 
AT FLORENCE — FROM M. ANGELO. 

Eternal Lord! eased of a cumbrous load, 
And lo^-ened from the world, I turn to 

Thee ; 
Shun, like a shattered bark, the storm, and 

I flee 

I To thy protection for a safe abode. 
The crown of thorns, hands pierced upon 

the tree. 
The meek, benign, and lacerated face, 
'I'o a sincere repentance promise grace, 
To the sad soul give hope of pardon freeo 



POEMS OF THE IMACiyATION'. 



319 



With justice mark not Thou, O Light di- 
vine, 

My fault, nor hear it with thy sacred ear ; 

Neither put forth that way thy arm severe; 

Wash with thy blood my sins; theieto in- 
cline 

More readily the more my years require 

Help, and forgiveness speedy and entire. 

XXIII. 

AMONG THE RUINS OF A CONVENT IN 
THE APENNINES. 

Yn Trees ! whose slender roots entwine 

Altars that piety neglects ; 
Whose infant arms enclasp the shrine 

Which no devotion now respects ; 
If not a straggler from tlie herd 
Here ruminate, nor sinouded bird, 
Chanting her low-voiced hymn, take pride 
In aught tiiat ye would grace or hide — 
How sadly is your love misplaced. 
Fair Trees, your bounty run to waste ! 

Ye, loo, wild Flowers ! that no one heeds, 
And ye — full often spurned as weeds — 
In beauty clotlied, or breatiiiiig sweetness 
From fractured arch and mouldering wall- 
Do but more touclungiy recall • 
Man's headstrong violence and Time's 

rteetness. 
Making the precinrts ye adorn 
Appear to sight still more forlorn. 



IN LOMBARDY. 

See, where his difficult way that Old Man 

wins 
iient by a load of Mulberry leaves ! — most 

harii 
Appears his lot, to the small Worm's com- 
pared, 
Knr whom his toil with early day begins. 
Acknowledging no task-master, at will 
(As if lier labor and her case were twins) 
She seems to work, at jileasure to lie still ; — 
i\nd softly sleeps within the thread slie 

spins. 
So fare they — the Man serving as her 

Slave. 
Ere long, their fates do each to each con- 
form : 
I'.ath ]iass into new being, — but the Worm, 
Transfigured, sinks into a hopeless grave ; 
His volant Spirit will, he trusts, ascend 
To bliss unbounded, glory without end. 



AFTER LEAVING ITALY. 

Fair Land ! Thee all men greet with joy 

how few, 
Whose souls take pride in freedom, virtue, 

fame. 
Part from thee without pity dyed in shame; 
1 could not — while from Venice we with- 
drew. 
Led on till an Alpine strait confined our 

view 
Within its depths, and to the shore w« 

came 
Of Lago Morto. dreary sight and name, 
Which o'er sad thoughts a sadder coloring 

threw. 
Italia ! on the surface of thy sjjirit, 
(Too aptly emblemed by that torpid lake) 
Shall a few partial breezes only creep ? — 
I>e its depths quickened ; what thou dost 

inherit 
Of th.e world's hopes, dare to fulfil ; awake, 
Mother of Heroes, from thy death-like 

sleep I 

XXVI. 
CONTINUED. 

As indignation mastered grief, my tongue 
Spake bitter words ; words that did ill agree 
With those rich stores of Nature's imagery, 
And divine Art, that fast to meniory 

clung— 
Thy gifts, magnificent Region, ever young 
In the sun's eye, and in his sister's sight 
How beautiful ! how worthy to be sung 
In streams of rapture, or subchied delight ! 
I feign not ; witness that unwelcome slojk 
Tiiat followed the first sound of German 

speech, 
Caught the far-winding barrier Alps among. 
In that announcement, greeting seemed to 

mock 
Parting ; the casual word had power to 

reach 
My heart, and filled that heart with conflict 

stromr. 



COMPOSED AT RYDAL ON MAY MORNING, 

1838. 

If with old love of you, dear Hills! I shar« 
New love of many a rival imago brought 
From far, forgive the wanderings of my 

thought : 
Nor art thou wronged, sweot May I when ] 

compare 



|20 



POEMS OF TTTE IMAGTNATION. 



Thy present birth-morn with thy last, so 

fair, 
So rich to me in favors. For my lot 
Then was, within tiie famed Egerian Grot 
To sit and muse, fanned by its dewy air 
Mingling witli thy soft breath ! That morn- 
nig 'too, 
Warblers 1 heard their joy unbosoming 
Amid the sunny, shadowy, Coliseum ; 
Heard them, unchecked by aught of sadden- 
ing hue, 
For victories there won by flower-crowned 

Spring, 
Chant in full choir their innocent Tc 
Deum. 



THE PILLAR OF TRAJAN. 

Whf.ru towers are crushed, and unforbid- 
den weeds 

O'er mutilated arches shed their seeds ; 

And temples, doomed to milder change, 
unfold 

A new magnificence that vies with old ; 

Firm in its pristine majesty hath stood 

A votive Column, spared by fire and 
flood :— 

And, though the passions of man's fretful 
race 

Have never ceased to eddy round its base, 

Not injurci more by touch of meddling 
hands 

Than a lone obelisk, 'mid Nubian sands. 

Or aught in Syrian deserts left to save 

From death the memory of the good and 
biav^'. 

Historic figures round the shaft cmbost 

Ascend, with lineaments in air not lost : 

Still as he turns, the charmed spectator 
sees 

nroiip winding after group with dream-like 
ease, 

Triumplis in sunbright gratitude displayed, 

Or softly stealing into modest shade. 

— So, pleased with purjile clusters to en- 
twine 

Some lofty elm-tree, mounts the daring 
vine ; 

The woodbine so, with spiral grace, and 
breathes 

Wide-spreading odors from her flowery 
wreaths. 



Borne by the Muse from rills in shep- 
herds' ears. 
Murmuring but one smooth story for all 

years, 
1 gladly commune with the mind and heart 
Of him who thus survives by classic art, 
His actions witness, venerate his mien, 
And study Trajan as by Pliny seen ; 
Behold how fought the Chief whose con- 
quering sword 
Stretched far as earth might own a single 

lord: 
In the delight of moral prudence schooled, 
How feelingly at home the Sovereign ruled; 
Best of the good — in pagan faith allied 
To more than Man, by virtue deified. 

Memorial Pillar ! 'mid the wrecks ot 

Time 
Preserve thy charge with confidence sub- 
lime — 
The exultations, pomps, and cares of Rome, 
Whence half the breathing world received 

its doom ; 
Things that recoil from langrage ; that, if 

shown 
By apter pencil, from the light had flown. 
A Pontiff, Trajan here th.c Gods imjilores, 
There greets an Embassy from Indian 

shores : 
Lo ! he harangues his cohorts — tJiere the 

storm 
Of battle meets him in authentic form ! 
Unharnessed, naked, troops of Moorish 

horse 
Sweep to the charge ; more high, the 

Oacian force, 
To hoof and finger mailed; — yet, high or 

low. 
None bleed, and none lie prostrate but the 

foe; 
In every Roman, through all turns of fate, 
Is Roman dignity inviolate; 
Spirit in him pre-eminent, who guides. 
Supports, adorns, and over all presides; 
Distinguished only by inherent state 
From honored Instruments that round him 

wait ; 
Rise as he may, his grandeur scorns the test 
Of outward symbol, nor will deign to rest 
On auglit by wliicli another is deprest. 
— Alas ! that One thus disciplined Gould toil 
To enslave whole nations on their native 

soil ; 
So emulous of Macedonian famr^, 
Tliat, when his age was measured with hig 

aim. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



321 



He irooped, 'mid else unclouded victories, 
And turned his eagles back with deep-ilrawn 
si^lis ; [Wise! 

O weakness of the Great ! O folly of the 

Where now the haughty Empire that was 
spread 
W'tli such fond hope ? her very speech is 
doiid; 



Vet glorious Art the power of Time defies, 
And Trajan stilj, through various enterprise, 
Mounts, in this fine illusion, toward tlie skies ; 
Still are we present with the imperial Chief, 
Nor cease to gaze upon the bold Relief 
Till Rome, to silent marble unconfined, 
Becomes with all her years a vision of the 
Mind. 



THE EGYPTIAN MAID; 

OR, 

THE ROMANCE OF THE WATER LILY. 

[For the names and persons in the following poem, see the *' History of the renowned Prince 
Arthur and his Knights of the Knund Table : '^ for ilie rest the Author is answerable ; only it 
may be proper to add that the Lotus, wiili the bust of the Cloddess aiijicaring to rise out of tht 
full-blown flower, xj^as suggested by the beautiful work of ancient art, once iuiludcd among the 
Towuley Marbles, and now in the British Museum.] 



While Merlin paced the Cornish sands, 
Forth looking toward the rocks of Scilly, 
The pleased Enchanter was aware 
Of A bright Ship that seemed to hang in 

air. 
Yet was she work of mortal hands. 
And took from men her name — The 
Water Lilv. 

Soft was the wind, that landward blew ; 
And, as the Moon, o'er some dark hill 

ascendant. 
Grows from a little edge of light 
To a full orb, this Pinnace bright 
Became, as nearer to the coast she drev. 
More glorious, with spread sail and streaming 

pendant. 

Upon the wingeu Shape so fair 
Sage Merlin gazed with admiration 
Her lineaments, tliought he, surpass 
Aught that was ever shown in magic glass ; 
Was ever built with patient care ; 
Or, at a touch, produced by happiest trans- 
formation. 

Now, though a Mechanist whose skill 
Shames the degenerate grasp of modern 

science. 
Grave Merlin (and belike the more 



For practising occult and perilous lore) 
Was subject to a freakish will 
That sapped good thoughts, or scared them 
with defiance. 

Provoked to envious spleen, he cast 

An altered look upon the advancing 

Stranger 
Whom he had hailed with joy, and cried, 
" My Art shall help to tame her pride — " 

Anon the breeze became a blast. 
And the waves rose, and sky portended 
danger. 

With thrilling word, and potent sign 
Traced on tiie beach, his work the Sorcerer 

urges ; 
The clouds in blacker clouds are lost, 
Like spiteful Fiends that vanish, crossed 
By Fiends of aspect more malign ; 
And the winds roused the Deep with fiercei 

scourges. 

But worthy of the name she bore 
Was this Sea-flower, this buoyant Galley ; 
Supreme in loveliness and grace 
Of motion, whether in the embrace 
Of trusty anchorage, or scudding o'er 
The main flood roughened into hill and 
valley. 



322 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Behold, how wantonly she laves 
Iler sides, the Wizard's craft confounding ; 
IJke somethinq; out of Ocean sprung 
To be forevef fresh and young, 
Breasts the sea-flaslies, and huge waves 
Top-gallant high, rebounding and rebound- 
ing ! 

But Ocean under magic heaves. 
And cannot spare the Thing he cherished : 
Ah ! what avails tliat she was fair, 
Luminous, blitlie, and debonair ? 
The storm has stripped her of her leaves ; 
The Lily floata no longer ! — She hath per- 
ished. 

Grieve for her, — she deserves no less ; 
So like, yet so unlike, a living Creature ! 
No heart had she, no busy brain ; 
Tlioiigh loved, she could not love again ; 
Though pitied feel her own distress ; 
Nor aught that troubles us, the fools of 
Nature. 

Yet is there cause for gushing tears, 
So richly was this Galley laden ; 
A fairer than herself she bore, 
And, in lier struggles, cast ashore; 
A lovely One, wlio notiiing hears 
Of wind or wave — a meek and guileless 
Maiden. 

Into a cave had Merlin fled 

From miscliief, caused by spells himself 

had nuittered : 
And while, repentant all too late. 
In moody posture there he .sate, 
He heard a voice, and saw, with half 
raised head, 
A Visitant by whom these words were ut- 
tered : 

*' On Christian service this frail Bark 

Sailed (hear me, Merlin !) under high pro- 
tection, 

Though on her prow a sign of heathen 
power 

Was carved— a Goddess with a Lily 
flower. 

The old Egyptian's emblematic mark 
Of joy immortal and of pure affection. 

Her course was for the British strand ; 
Her freight, it was a Damsel peerless ; 
God reigns above, and Spirits strong 
May gather to avenge tliis wrong 
Done to the Princess, and her Land 
Which slie in duty left, sad but not cheer- 
less. 



And to Caerleon's loftiest tower 
Soon will the Knights of Arthur's Table 
A cry of lamentation send ; 
And all will weep who there attend, 
To grace that Stranger's bridal hour. 
For whom the sea was made unnavigablc. 

Shame ! should a Child of royal line 
Die tiuough tiie lilindness of thy malice ' " 
Thus to tiie Necromancer spake 
Nina, the Lady of the Lake, 
A gentle Sorceress, and benign. 
Who ne'er embittered any good man j 

chalice. 
" What boots," continued she, " to 

mourn .'' 
To expiate thy sin cndt >r : 
From tlic bleak isle where she is laid, 
Fetched by our art, the Egyptian Maid 
May yet to Arthur's court Ijc Ix>rne 
Cold as she is, ere life be fled forever. 

My pearly Boat, a shining Light, 
Tliat brought me down that sunless river, 
Will bear me on from \\4ave to wave. 
And back with her to this sea cave ;- 
Then Merlin ! for a rapid fliglit 

Through air, to thee my Charge will I de- 
liver. 
The very swiftest of thy cars 
Must, when my partis done, be ready 
Meanwhile, for further guidance, look 
Into thy own prophetic book ; 
And, if that fail, consult the Stars 

To learn thy course ; farewell ! be prompt 
and steady." 

This scarcely spoken, she again 
Was seated in her gleaming shallop. 
That, o'er the yet-distempered Deep, 
Pursued its way witli bird-like sweep, 
Or like a steed, without a rein. 
Urged o'er the wilderness in sportive gallop. 

Soon did the gentle Nina reach 

That Fsle without a house or haven ; 

Landing, she found not what she sought. 

Nor saw of wreck or ruin aught 

But a carved Lotus cast upon the beach 

By the fierce waves, a flower in marble 
graven. 
Sad relique, but how fair the while ! 
For gently each from each retreating 
With backward curve, the leaves revealed 
The bosom half, and half concealed. 
Of a Divinity, tliat seemed to smile 

On Nina, as she passed, with hopeful greei- 
mg. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATIOiW. 



323 



No quest was hers of vague desire, 
Of tortured hope and purpose shaken ; 
Following the margin of a bay, 
She spied tlie lonely Cast-away, 
Unmarred, unstripped of her attire, 
But with closed eyes,— of breatli and bloom 
forsaken. 

Then Nina, stooping down, ern'or iced, 
WitJA tenderness and mild emotion, 
The Damsel, in that trance embtjund ; 
And, while she raised her from the ground, 
And in the pearly shallop placed. 
Sleep fell upon the air, and stilled tiie ocean. 

The turmoil hushed, celestial springs 
Of music opened, and there came a blend- 
ing 
Of fragrance, undcrived from eartli, 
With gleams that owed not to the sun 

their birth, 
And that soft rustling of invisible wings 
Which Angels make, on works of love de- 
scending. 

And Nina heard a sweeter voice 

Than if the Goddess of the flower had 

spoken : 
" Thou hast achieved, fair Dame 1 wliat 

none 
Less pure in spirit could have done ; 
Cio, in thy enterprise rejoice I 
Air, earth, sea, sky, and heaven, success be- 
token." 

So cheered, she left that Island bleak, 
A bare rock of the Scilly cluster ; 
And, as they traversed the smooth brine, 
The self-illumined Ihigantine 
Shed, on the Slumbcrer's cold wan cheek 
And pallid brow, a melancholy lustre. 

Fleet was their course, and when they 

came 
To the dim cavern, whence the river 
Issued into the salt-sea flood, 
Merlin, as fixed in thought he stood, 
Was thus accosted by the Dame ; 
" IJehold to thee my Charge 1 now deliver ! 

But where attends thy chariot— where?" — 
Quoth Merlin, " Even as I was bidden, 
So have I done ; as trusty as thy barge 
My vehicle shall prove — O precious 

Charge ! 
If this be sleep, how soft ! if death, how 

fair! 
Much have my books disclosed, but the end 

is hidden,'' 



He spake ; and gliding into view 

Forth from the grotto's dimmest chamber 

Came two mute Swans, whose plumes of 

dusky white 
Changed, as the pair approached the 

light, 
Drawing an ebon car, their hue 
(Like clouds of sunset) into lucid amber 

Once more did gentle Nina lift 

'Jhe Princess, passive to all changes 

The car received her:— then up-went 

Into the ethereal element 

The Birds with progress smooth and 

swift 
As thought, when through bright regions 

memory ranges. 

Sage Merlin, at the Slumberer's side, 
Instructs the Swans their way to meas- 
ure ; 
And soon Caerlcon's towers appeared, 
.'\nd notes of minstrelsy were heard 
l-'rom ricli pavilions spreading wide, 
For some high day of long-expected pleas- 
ure. 

.^we-stiicken stood both Knights and 

Dames 
Ere on firm ground the car alighted ; 
Eftsoons astonishment was past, 
For in that face they saw the last, 
Last lingering look of clay, that tames 
All pride ; by which all liappiness is blighted. 

Said Merlin, " Mighty King, fair Lords, 
Away with feast and tilt and tourney ! 
Ye saw, throughout this royal House, 
Ye heard, a rocking marvellous 
Of turrets, and a clash of swords 
Self-shaken, as 1 closed my airy jcnirney. 

Lo ! by a destiny well known 
To mortals, joy is turned to sorrow ; 
This is the wished-for Bride, the Maid 
Of Egypt, from a rock conveyed 
Where she by shipwreck had been thi own . 
Ill sight ! but grief may vanish ere the mor 
row." 

" Though vast thy power, thy words arc 
weak," 

Exclaimed the King, " a mockery liate- 
ful; 

Dutiful Child, her lot how hard ! 

Is this her piety's reward .' 

Those watery locks, that bloodless cheek ! 
O winds without remorse I O shore ungrate- 
ful! 



324 



POEMS OF THE fM AGINATION. 



Rich robes are fretted by the rnotli ; 
Towers, temples, fall by stroke of tluin- 

der ; 
Will that, or deeper tliou,2;hts. abate 
A Father's sorrow for lier fate .'' 
\\z will repent him of his troth ; 
His brain will burn, his stout heart split 
asunder. 
Alas ! and I have caused this woe ; 
For, wiieii my prowess trom invading 

Neiglibors 
Had freed iiis Realm, he pliglitcd word 
That lie would turn to Christ our Lord, 
And liis dear Daughter on a Knight be- 
stow 
Whom 1 should choose for love and match- 
less labors. 

Her birth was heathen ; but a fence 
Of holy Angels round her hovered 
A Lady added to my court 
So fair, of such divine report 
And worsiiip, seemed a recompense 
r^or fifty kingdoms by my sword recovered. 

Ask not for whom, O Champions true ! 

She was reserved by me, her life's be- 
trayer ; 

She who wks meant to be a bride 

Is now a corse ; tiicn put aside 

Vain thoughts, and speed ye, with observ- 
ance due 
Of Christian rites, in Christian ground to lay 
her." 

" The tomb," said Merlin, "may not close 

Upon 3'er yet, earth hide her beauty ; 

Not froward to tliy sovereign will 

Esteem me, Liege ! if I, whose skill 

Wafted her hither, interpose 
To check this pious haste of erring duty. 

My books command me to lay bare 
The secret thou art bent on keeping : 
Here must a high attest be given. 
What Bridegroom was for her ordained 

by Heaven ; 
And in my glass significants there rfre 
Of things tl^at may to gladness turn this 

weeping. 

For this, approaching One by One, 
Thy Knights must touch the cold hand of 
the Viigm ; [bloum 

So, for the favored One, the Flower may 
Once more but, if unchangeable hei 

doom — 
If life departed be forever gone, [ing 

Some bl.si ubiuiaacc, horn this cloud enier^- 



May teach him to bewail his loss ; 
Not with a grief that, like a vapor rises 
And melts ; but grief devout that shall 

endure, 
And a perpetual growth secure 
Of purposes which no false thought shall 

cross, 
A harvest of high hopes and noble entcw 

prises." 

" So be it," said the King ; — " anon. 
Here, where the Princess lies, begin the 

trial ; 
Knights, each in order as ye stand 
Step forth." — 'i'o touch tiie pallid hand 
Sir Agravainc advanced ; no sign he won 
From Heaven or earth ;— Sir Kaye had like 

denial. 

Abashed, Sir Dinas turned away ; 

Even for Sir Pcrcival was no disclosure; 

Though he, dcvoutest of all Champions, 
ere 

He reached that ebon car, the bier 

Whereon dittuscd like snow the Damsel 
lay. 
Full thrice had crossed himself in meek com- 
posure. 

Imagine (but ye Saints ! who can ?) 
How in still air the balance trembled — 
The wishes, peradvcnture the despites 
That overcame some not ungenerous 

Knights ; 
And all tlie thoughts that lengthened out 
a span 
Of time to Lords and Ladies thus assem- 
bled. 

What patient confidence was here ! 
And there how many bosoms panted ! 
While drawing toward the car Sir 

Gawaine, mailed 
For tournament, his beaver vailed, 
And softly touched ; but, to his princely 

cheer 
And high expectancy, no sign was granted. 

Next, disencumbered of his harp, 

Sir Tristram, dear to thousands as a 

brother. 
Came to the proof, nor grieved that there 

ensued 
No change ;— the fair Izonda he had 

wooed 
With love too true, a love with pangs too 

siiarp, 
From jiope too distant, not to dread an 

other. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



325 



Not so Sir Launcelot ; — from Heaven's 
grace 

A sign lie craved, tired slave of vain con- 
trition ; 

The royal Guinever looked passing glad 

When his touch failed. — Next came Sir 
Galahad ; 

He paused, and stood entranced by that 
still face 
VVhose features he had seen in noontide 
vision. 

For late, as near 3 murmuring stream 
He rested 'mid an arbor green and shady, 
Nina, the good Enchantress, shed 
A light aroimd his mossy bed ; 
And, at her call, a waking dream 
Prefigured to his sense the Egyptian I^ady. 

Now, while his bright-haired front he 

bowed, • 
And stood, far-kenned by mantle furred 

with ermine, 
As o'er the insensate Body lumg 
The enrapt, the beautiful, the young, 
Belief sank deep into the crowd 
That he tiic solemn issue w^ould determine. 

Nor deem it strange ; tlie Youth had worn 
That very mantle on a day of glory. 
The day wher he achieved that matchless 

feat, 
The marvel of the Perilous Seat, 
Which whosoe'er approached of strength 

was shorn, 
Though King or Knight the most renowned 

in story. 

He touched with hesitating hand— 

And !o ' those Birds, far-famed through 

Love's dominions, 
The Swans, in triumph clap their wings ; 
And their necks play, involved in rings. 
Like sinless snakes in Eden's happy 

land ; — 
^ Mine is she.;' cried the Knight ;— again 

they clapped their pav.ons. 

" Mine was she — mine slie is, though dead. 
And to her name my soul shall cleave in 

sorrow ; " 
Whereat a tender twilight streak 
Of color (lawntd upon the Danv-cl's cheek; 
And her lips, quickening with uncertain 

red, 
Seemed from each other a faint warmth to 

borrow. 



Deep was the awe, the rapture high 

Uf love emboldened, hope with dread e» 

twining. 
When, to the mouth, relenting Deatii 
Allowed a soft and Hower-like breath, 
Precursor to a tinud sigh, 
To lilted eyelids, and a doubtful shining. 

In silence did King Arthur gaze 
Upon the signs that pass away or tarry ; 
In silence watched the gentle strife 
Of Nature leading back to life ; 
Then eased his soul ^t length by praise 
Of God, and Heaven's pure Queen — the 
blissful Mary. 

Then said he, " Take her to thy heart, 
Sir Galahad ! a treasure, that God giveth, 
Bound by indissoluble ties to thee 
Throujrh mortal change and immortality ; 
Be happy and unenvied, thou who art 
A goodly knight that halh lU) peer that 
iivcth ! " 

Not long the Nuptials were delayed ; 
And sage tradition still rehearses 
The pomp, the glory of that hour 
When toward the altar from her bower 
King Arthur led the Egypt an Maid, 
And Angels carolled these tar-echoed verses: 

Who shrinks not from alliance 
Of evil with good I'owers 
'J'o God proclaims defiance, 
And mocks whom he adores. 

A Ship to Christ devoted 
From the Land of Nile did go ; 
Alas' the bright Shp floated, 
An Idol at her prow. 

By magic dom nation, 
The Heaven permitted vent 
Of purblind mortal pass on, 
Was wrought her pui'ishment. 

The Flower, the Foim withn it, 
What served thee m her need .? 
Her port she could not win it, 
Nor from mi>lup be fieed. 

The tempest overcame her. 
And she was seen no more ; 
But gently, gently blame her — 
She cast a Pearl ashore. 

The Maid to Jesu hearkened, 
And kept to liim her faith. 
Till sense in deatii was darkened, 
Or sleep akin to death. 



326 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



But Angels round her pillow 
Kept watch, a viewless band ; 
And, billow favoring billow, 
She reached the destined strand. 



Blest Pair ! whate'er befall you, 
Your faith in Him approve 
Who from frail earth can call you 
To bowers of endless love I 
1830. 



THE RIVER DUDDON. 

A SERIES OF SONNETS. 

The River Duddon rises upon Wrynose Fell, on the confines of Westmoreland, Cumbei 
land, and Lancashire ; and, having served as a boundary to the two last counties for the spacer 
of about tweiity-.ive miles, enters the Irish Sea, between the Isle of Walney and the Lordship 
of Milium. 



TO THE REV. DR. WORDSWORTH. 
(with the sonnets to the river duddon, and other poems in this collection, 1820.) 



Till' minstrels played their Christmas tune 
Tonightbeneatli my cottage-eaves ; 
While, smitten by a lofty moon, 
The encircling laurels, thick with leaves, 
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen. 
That overpowered their natural green. 

Through hill and valley every breeze 
Had sunk to rest with folded wings : 
Keen was the air, but could not freeze. 
Nor check, the music of the strings ; 
So stout and hardy were the bantl 
That scraped the chords with strenuous 
hand ! 

And who but listened ? — till was paid 
Respect to every Inmate's claim : 
The greeting given, the music played, 
In honor of each household name. 
Duly pronounced with lusty call, 
And " Merry Christmas" wished to all ! 

O Brother! I revere the choice 
Tliat took thee from thy native hills ; 
And it is given thee to rejoice : 
Though public care full often tills 
(Heaven only witness of the toil) 
A barren and ungrateful soil. 

Yet, would that Thou, with me and mine, 
lUidst heard this never-failing rite ; 
And seen on other faces shine 
A true revival of the light 



Which Nature and these rustic Powers, 
Is simple childhood, spread through ours ! 

For pleasure hath not ceased to wait 
On these expected annual rounds; 
Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate 
Call forth the unelaborate sounds, 
Or they are offered at the door 
That guards the lowliest of the poor. 

How touching, when, at midnight, sweep 
Snow-mulrled winds, and all is dark, 
To hear — and sink again to sleep ! 
Or, at an earlier call, to mark. 
By blazing fire, tlie still suspense 
Of self-complacent innocence ; 

The mutual nod, — the grave disguise 

Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er ; 

And some imbidden tears that rise 

For names once heard, and heard no mere. 

Tears brightened by the serenade 

For infant in the cradle laid. 

Ah ! not for emerald fields alone, 

With ambient streams more pure and bright 

Than fabled Cytherea's zone 

Glittering before the Thunderer's sight, 

Is to my heart of hearts endeared 

The ground where we were born and reared I 

Hail, ancient Manners ! sure defence. 
Where they survive, of wholesome laws ; 
Remnants of love whose modest sense 



POEMS OF THE IMAGEVATION. 



327 



riius Into narrow room withdraws ; 

Hail, Usages of pristine mould, 

And ye that guard them, Mountains old ! 

Bear with me, Brother! quench the thought] 
That slights this passion, or condemns ; 
If thee fond Fancy ever brought 
From tlic proud margin of the Thames, 
And Lambeth's venerable towers, , 

To humbler streams, and greener bowers. 

Yes, they can make, who fail to fii 

Short leisure even in busiest daj's ; 

Moments, to cast a look behind. 

And jnofit by those kindly rays 

That through the clouds do sometimes steal, 

And all the far-off past reveal. 

Hence, while the imperial City's din 
Beats frequent on thy s.-itiatc car, 
A pleased attention I may win 
To agitations less severe, 
That neither overwhelm nor cloy, 
But fill the hollow vale with joy ! 



Not envying Latian shades — if yet they 

throw 
A grateful coolness round that crystal 

'Spnng, 
Blandusia, prattling as when long ago 
The Sabine Bard was moved her praise to 

sing ; 
Careless of flowers that in perennial blow 
Round the moist marge of Persian fountains 

cling ; 
Heedless of Alpine torrents thundering 
Through ice-built arches radiant as heaven's 

bow : 
I seek the birthplace of a native Stream. — 
All hail, ve mountains ! hail, thou morning 

light'! 
Better to breathe at large on this clear 

.height 
Than toil in heedless sleep from dream to 

dream : 
Pure flow the verse, pure, vigorous, free 

and bright. 
For Duddon, long-loved Duddon, is my 

theme I 

II. 
Child of the clouds ! remote from every 

taint 
Of sordid industry thy lot is cast ; 
Thine are the honors of the lofty waste ; 



Not seldom, when with iieat the valleys 

faint. 
Thy handmaid Frost with spangled tissue 

quaint 
Thy cradle decks ;— to chant thy birth, thou 

hast 
No meaner Poet than the whistling Blast, 
And Desolation is thy Patron-saint! 
She guards thee, ruthless Power ! who 

would not spare 
Those miglity forests, once the bison's 

screen. 
Where stalked the huge deer to his shaggy 

lair 
Through paths and alleys roofed with 

darkest green ; 
Thousands of years before the silent air 
Was jiicrced by whizzing shaft of hunter 

keen ! 



III. 



How shall I paint thee? — Be this naked 

stone 
My seat, while I give way to such intent ; 
Pleased could my verse, a speakiiig monu. 

ment, 
Make to the eyes of men thy features 

known, 
But as of all those tripping lambs not one 
Outruns his fellows, so hath Nature lent 
To thy beginning naught that doth present 
I'cculiar ground for hope to build upon. 
To dignify the spot that gives thee birth. 
No sign of hoar Antiquity's esteem 
Appears, and none of modern Fortune's 

care ; 
Yet thou thyself hast round thee shed a 

gleam 
Of brilliant moss, instinct with freshness 

rare ; 
Prompt offering to thy Foster-mother, 

Earth ! 

IV. 

Takk, cradled Nursling of the mountain, 

take 
This parting glance, no negligent adieu ! 
A Protean change seems wrought while I 

pursue 
The curves, a loosely scattered chain dotri 

make ; 
Or rather thou appear'st a glistering snake, 
Silent, and to the gazer's eye untrue, 
Thridding with sinuous lapse the rushes, 

through 
Dwarf willows gliding, and by ferny brake. 



328 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Starts from a dizzy steep the undaunted 

Kill 
Robed instantly in garb of snow-white 

foam ; 
And laughing dares the Adventurer who 

hath clomb 
So high, a rival purpose to fufil ; 
Else let the dastaid backward wend, and 

roam, 
Seeking less bold achievement, where he 

will ! 

V. 

Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that 

played 
With thy clear voice, I caught the fitful 

sound 
Wafted o'er sullen moss and craggy mound — 
Unfruitful solitudes, that seemed to upbraid 
The sun in heaven ! — but now^ to form a 

shade 
For Thee, green alders have together wound 
Their foliage ; ashes flung their arms 

around ; 
And birch-trees risen in silver colonnade. 
And thou hast also tempted here to rise, 
'Mid sheltering pines, this Cottage rude and 

sray ; 

Whose ruddy children, by the mother's eyes 

Carelessly watched, sport through the sum- 
mer day. 

Thy pleased associates :— light as endless 
May 

On infant bosoms lonely Nature lies. 



FLOWERS. 

Ere yet our course was graced with social 
trees 

It lacked not old remains of hawthorn 
bowers, 

Where small birds warbled to their para- 
mours ; 

And, earlier still, was heard the hum of 
bees ; 

I 3aw them ply their harmless robberies. 

And caught the fragrance which the sundry 
flowers, 

Fed by the stream with soft perpetual 
showers, 

Plcnteously yielded to the vagrant bree/.e. 

There bloomed the strawberry of the wilder- 
ness ; 

The trembling eyebright showed her sap- 
phire blue. 

The thynii, her purple, like the blush of 
Even.i 



And if the bieath of some to no caress 
Invited, forth they peeped so fair to view, 
All kinds alike seemed favorites of Heaven. 

VII. 

" Change me, some God, into that breath- 

ing rose ! " 
The love-sick Stripling fanc'fully sighs, 
The envied flower beholding, as it lies 
On Laura's breast, in exquisite repose ; 
Or he would pass ii.to her bird, that throws 
The darts of song from out its wiry cage ; 
Enraptured,— could he for himself engage 
Tiie thousandth part of what the Nymph 

bestows, 
And what the little careless innocent 
Ungraciously receives. Too daring choice ! 
There are whose calmer mind it would con- 
tent 
To be an unculled floweret of the S^en, 
Fearless of plough and scythe ; or darkling 

wren 
That tunes on Duddon's banks her slender 
voice. 

VIII. 

What aspect bore the Man who roved or 

fled. 
First of his tribe, to this dark dell — who 

first 
In this pellucid Current slaked his thirst? 
What hopes came with him? What designs 

were spread 
Along his path ? His unorotected bed 
What dreams encompassed? Was the in« 

truder nursed 
In hideous usages, and rites accursed, 
That thinned the living and disturbed the 

dead ? 
No voice replies ;~both air and earth are 

mute ; 
And Thou, blue Streamlet, murmuring 

yield'st no more 
Than a soft record, that, whatever fruit 
Of ignorance thou might'st witness hereto 

fore, 
Thy function was to heal and to restore. 
To soothe and cleanse, not madden and 

pollute ! 

IX. 

THE STEPPING-STONES. 

The struggling Rill insensibly is grown 
Into a Brook of loud and stately march. 
Crossed ever and anon by plank or arch ; 
And, for like use, lo ! what might seem ^ 
zone 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION: 



329 



Chosen for ornament — stone matched witli 

stone 
In studied symmetry, with interspace 
For the clear waters to jjiirsue their race 
Without restraint. How swiftly have they 

flown, 
Succeeding — still succeeding ! Here the 

Child 
Puts, when tlie high-swoln Flood runs fierce 

and wild, 
His budding courage to the proof; and 

here 
Declining Manhood learns to note the sly 
And sure encroachments of infirmity, 
Thinking how fast time runs, life's end how 

-ear ! 

X. 

THE SAME SUBJECT. 

Not so tliat Pair whose youthful spirits 
dance 

With prompt emotion, urging them to pass ; 

A sweet confusion checks the Siiepherd- 
lass ; 

Blushing she eyes the dizzy flood askance ; 

To stop ashamed — too timid to advuice ; 

SIk; ventures once again — anotlicr pause ! 

His outstretched hand He tauntingly with- 
draws — 

She sues for help with piteous utterance ! 

Chidden slie cnides again ; the thrilling 
touch 

Poth feel, when he renews the wished-for 
aid : 

Ah ! if their fluttering hearts should stir too 
much. 

Should beat too strongly, both may be be- 
trayed. 

The frolic Loves, v.ho, from yon hi'rh rock, 
see 

The struggle^clap their wings for victory ! 

XI. 
THE F.MRY CHASM. 

No fiction was it of the antique age : 

A sky-blue stone, within this sunless cleft, 

Ih of the very foot-marks unbercft 

Which tiny Elves impressed ; — on that 

smooth stage 
Dancmg with all their brilliant equipage 
In secret revels — liaply after theft 
Of some sweet Babe — Flower stolen, and 

coarse Weed left 
For the distracted Mother to assuage 
Her grief with, as she might ! — But, where, 

oh ! where 



Is traceable a vestige of the notes 
Tiiat ruled those dances wild in char- 
acter ? — 
Deep underground? Or in I'u upper air, 
On the shrill wind of midnight .'' or whert 

floats 
O'er twilight fields the autumnal gossamej .? 



HINTS KOR THE FAN'CY. 

On, loitering Muse — the swift Stream chides 

us — on ! 
Albeit his deep-worn channel doth immure, 
(Jbjects immense portrayed in miniature. 
Wild shapes for many a strange com- 
parison ! 
Niagaras, Alpine passes, a.id anon 
Abodes of Naiads, calm abysses pure. 
Bright liquid mansions, fashioned to endure 
When the broad oak drops, a leafless 

skeleton. 
And tiie solidities of mortal pride. 
Palace and tower, are crumbled into dust ! — 
The Bard who walks with Duddon for his 

guide 
Shall find such toys of fancy thickly set : 
Turn from the sight, enamoured Muse— we 

must ; 
And, if thou canst, leave them without 
regret I 

XIII. 
OPEN PROSPECT. 

Hail to the fields — with Dwellings 

sprinkled o'er, 
And one small hamlet, under a green hill 
Clustering, with barn and byre, and spout- 
ing mill ! 
A glance suffices ; — should we wir,h fi : 

more. 
Gay June would scorn us. But when bleak 

winds roar 
Through the stiff lance-like shoots of pollard 

ash, 
Dread swell of sound ! loud as the gusts 

that lash 
The matted forests of Ontario's shore 
By wasteful steel unsmitten — then would I 
Turn into port ; and, reckless of the gale, 
Reckless of angry Duddon sweeping by. 
While the warm hearth exalts the manlh'ng 

ale. 
Laugh with the generous household heartily 
At all the merry pranks of Dounerdalel 



33<> 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



O MOUNTAIN Stream ! the Sliephercl and 

his Cot 
A re privileged Inmates of deep solitude ; 
Nor would the nicest Anchorite exclude 
A field or two of brighter green, or plot 
Of tillage-ground, that seemeth like a spot 
Of stationary sunshine : — thou hast vie»ved 
These only, Duddon ! with their paths 

renewed 
By fits and starts, yet this contents thee not. 
Thee hath some awful Spirit impelled to 

leave. 
Utterly to desert, the haunts of men, 
Though simple thy companions were and 

few ; 
And through this wilderness a passage 

cleave 
Attended but by thy own voice, save when 
The clouds and fowls of the air thy way 

pursue ! 



From this deep chasm, where quivering 

sunbeiims ])lay 
Upon its loftiest crags, mine eyes behold 
A gloomy Nl( iiii, capacious, blank, and 

cold ; 
A concave free from shrubs and mosses 

gray; 
In semblance fresh, as if, with dire affray. 
Some Statue, placed amid these regions old 
For tutelary service, thence had rolled. 
Startling the flight of tim 1 Yesterday! 
Was it by mortals sculptured ? — weary 

slaves 
Of slow endeavor! or abruptly cast 
Into rude shape by fire, with roaring blast 
Tempestuously lot loose from central caves ? 
Or fashioned by the turbulence of waves, 
Then, when o'er highest hills tiie Deluge 

pass'd ? 



AMERICAN TRADITION. 

Such fruitless ciuestions may not long be- 
guile 

Or plague the fancy 'mid the sculptured 
shows 

Conspicuous yet where Oroonoko flows ; 

There would the Indian answer with a smile 

Aimed at the White Man's ignorance the 
while, 

Of the Great Waters tell.ng how they 
rose. 



Covered the plains, and, wandering whire 

they chose, 
Mounted through every intricate defile, 
Triumphant, — Inundation wide and deep, 
O'er which his Fathers urged, to ridge and 

steep 
Else unapproachable, their buoyant way ; 
And carved, on mural cliff's undreaded side, 
Sun, moon, and stars, and beast of chase or 

prey ; % 
Whate'er they sought, shunned, loved, or 

deified ! * 

XVII. 
RETURN. 

A DARK plume fetch me from yon blasted 

yew, 
Perched on whose top the Danish Raven 

croaks ; 
Aloft, the imperial Bird of Rome invokes 
Departed ages, sheddin;,^ wliere lie ilcw 
Loose fragments of wild waiUng, that be- 
strew 
The clouds and thrill the chambers of the 

rocks ; 
And into silence hush the timorftus flocks, 
That, calmly couching while tlic nightly dew 
Moistened each fleece, beneath the twinkling 

stars 
Slept amid that lone Camji on Ilardknot's 

height, 
Whose Guardians bent the knee to Jove 

and Mars : 
Or, wi'M- that mystic Round of Druid frame 
'i'ardily sinking by its }iroper weight 
Deep into patient Earth, from whose smooth 

breast it came ! 

XVIII. 
SEATHWAITE CHAPEL. 

Sacred Religion! "mother of form and 

fear," 
Dread arbitress of mutable respect, 
New rites ordaining when the old are 

wrecked. 
Or cease to j^lease the fickle worshipper : 
Mother of Love! (that name best suits thee 

here) 
Mother of Love ! for this deep vale, protect 
Truth's holy lamji, pure source of bright 

effect, 
Gifted to purge the vajiory atmosphere 
That seeks to stifle it ;^as in those days 
When thir. low Pile a Gospel Teacher knew 



* See Humboldt's Personal Narrative. 



POEMS OP THE mAGINATI0f7. 



331 



Whose good works formed an endless ret- 
inue: 

A Pastor such as Chaucer's verse portrays ; 

Such as the lieaven-tauglit skill of Herbert 
drew ; 

And tender Goldsmith crowned with death- 
less praise 1 



TRIBUTARY STREAM. 

My frame hath often trembled with delight 
VVh.jn hope ])resented some far-distant good, 
Tliat seemed from heaven descending, like 

tlie flood 
Of yon pure waters, from their aery height 
llnrrving. wicii lordly Duddon to unite ; 
Wh'i, 'mid a world of images imprest 
On the calm depth of h.is transparent breast, 
Appears to cherish most that J'orrent white, 
The fairest, softest, liveliest of them all ! 
Antl selflom hath ear listened to a tune 
More lulling than the busy hum of Noon, 
Swoln by that voice — wliose murmur musical 
Announces to the thirsty fields a boon 
Dewy and fresh, till showers again shall fall. 



TUF, PLAIN or DONNERDALE. 

The old inventive Poets, had they seen. 
Or rather felt, the entrancement that detains 
Thy waters, Duddon ! 'mid these flowery 

plains ; 
'l"he still repose, the liquid lapse serene, 
'I'ransferred to bowers imi)crishably green, 
Had beautified Elysium ! But these chains 
Will soon be broken ; — a rough course re- 
mains, 
Kough as the past ; where Thou, of placid 

mien, 
Innocuous as a firstling of the flock. 
And countenanced like a soft cerulean sky, 
Shalt change thy temper ; and, with many a 

shock 
Olven and received in mutual jeopardy, 
Dance, like a Bacchanal, from rock to rock, 
Tossing her frantic thyrsus wide and high I 



Whence that low voice? — A whisper from 

the heart, 
That told of days long past, when here I 

roved 
With friends and kindred tendrrlv brloved ; 
Some who had early mandates to dep.irt, 
Yet are allowed to steal my path athwart 



By Duddon's side ; once more do we unite, 
Once more beneath the kind Earth's tranquil 

light ; 
And smothered joys into new being start. 
From her unworthy seat, the cloudy stall 
Of Time, breaks forth triumphant Memory; 
Her glistening tresses bound, yet light and 

free 
As golden locks of birch, that rise and fall 
On gales that breathe too gently to recall 
Aught of the fading year's inclemency ! 



TRADITION. 

A LOVE-LORN Maid, at some far-distant 

time, 
Came to this hidden pool, whose depths 

surpass 
In crystal clearness Dian's looking-glass ; 
And, gazing, saw that Rose, which from the 

prime 
Derives its name, reflected as the chime 
Of echo doth reverberate some sweet soimd : 
The starry treasure from the blue profound 
She longed to ravish : — shall she plunge, or 

climb 
The humid precipice, and seize the guest 
Of April, smiling high in upper air ? 
Desperate alternative I what fiend could dare 
To }irompt the thought? — Upon the steep 

rock's breast 
The lonely primrose yet renews its bloom ! 
Untouched memento of he; hapless doom! 

XXIIl. 
.SHEEP-WASIIINC. 

Sad thoughts, avaunt !— partake we their 

blithe cheer 
Who gathered in betimes the unshorn flock 
To wash the fleece, where haj^ly bands of 

rock. 
Checking the stream, make a pool smooth 

and clear 
As this we look on. Distant Mountains 

hear. 
Hear and repeat, the turmoil that unites 
Clamor of boys with innocent despites 
Of barking dogs, and bleatings from strange 

fear. 
And what if Duddon's spotless flood receive 
Unwelcome mixtincs as the uncouth noise 
Thickens, the pastoral River will forgive 
Such wrong ; nor need ive blame the licensed 

joys, _ 

'J'hough false to Nature's quiet equipoise : 
Frank are the sports, the stains are fugitive 



332 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION, 



THE RESTING-PLACE. 

M ID-NOON is past ;— upon the sultry mead 
No zephyr breathes, no cloud its shadow 

throws : 
If we advance unstrengthened by repose, 
Farewell the solace of the vagrant reed ! 
This Nook — with woodbnie hung and strag- 
gling weed, 
Tempting recess as ever pilgrim chose, 
Half grot, half arbor — proffers to enclose 
Body and mind, from molestation freed, 
In narrow compass — narrow as itself : 
Or if the Fancy, too industrious Elf, 
Be loth that we should breathe awhile ex- 
empt 
From new incitements friendly to our task, 
Here wants not stealthy prospect, that may 

tempt 
Loose Idleness to forego her wily mask. 

XXV. 

Metihnks 'twere no unprecedented feat 
Should some benignant Minister of air 
Lift, and encircle with a cloudy chair. 
The On ; for whom my heart shall ever beat 
With tenderest love ; — or, if a safer seat 
At ween his downy wings be furnished, there 
Would lodge her, and the cherished burden 

bear 
O'er hill and valley to this dim retreat! 
Rough ways my steps have trod ; — too 

rough and long 
For her companionship ; here dwells soft 

ease ; 
With sweets that she partakes not some dis- 
taste 
Mingles, and looking conr-ciousness of wmng ; 
Languish the flowers ; the waters seen to 

waste 
Their vocal charm ; their sparklings cease to 
please, 

XXVI. 

Return, Content ! for fondly I pursued. 
Even when a child, the Streams — unheard, 

unseen ; 
Through tangled woods, impending rocks 

between ; 
Or, free as air, with flying inquest viewed 
The sullen reservoirs whence their bold 

brood — 
Pure as the morning, fretful, boisterous, 

keen, 
Green as the salt-sea billows, white and 

green=-^' 



Poured down the hills, a choral multitude ! 
Nor have I tracked their course for scanty 

gains ; 
They taught me random cares and truant 

joys, 
That shield from mischief and preserve from 

stains 
Vague minds, while men are growing out of 

boys , 
Maturer F"ancy owes to their rough noise 
Impetuous thouglits that brook not servile 

reins. 



Fallen, and diffused into a shapeless heap. 
Or quietly self-buried in earth's mould. 
Is that embattled House, whose massy Keep 
Flung from yon cliff a shadow large and 

cold. 
There dwelt the gav, the bountiful, the bold ; 
Till nightly lamentations, like the sweep 
Of winds-— tiiough winds were silent — struck 

a deep 
And lasting terror through that ancient Hold 
Its line of Warriors fled;— they shrunk when 

tried 
By ghostly power : — but Time's unsparing 

hand 
Hath plucked such foes, like weeds, from out 

the land; 
And now, if men with men in peace abide. 
All other strengtliti'e weakest may withstand, 
All worse assaults may safely be defied. 



journey renewed. 

I rose while yet the cattle, heat opprest. 
Crowded together under rustling trees 
Brushed by the current of the water-breeze ; 
And for tlie'ir sakes, and love of all that rest, 
On Duddon'^- margin, in the sheltering nest ; 
For all the startled scaly tribes that slink 
Into his coverts, and each fearless link 
Of dancing insects forged upon his breast ; 
For these, and hopes and recollections worn 
Close to the vital seat of human clay ; 
Olad meetings, tender partings, that upstay 
The drooping mind of absence, by vows 

sworn 
In his pure presence near the trysting thorn— 
1 thanked the Leader of my onward way. 



No record tells of lance opposed to lance. 
Horse charging horse, 'luid these ititired 
domains j 



FOEMS OF THE IMAG/NAT/OAT. 



333 



Tdls that theii tiiif drank purple from the 

veins 
Of heroes, fallen, or slru^nling to advance, 
T'll doubtful combat issued m a trance 
Of victory, tliat struck, tlircugh heart and 

reins 
F.ven to the irimost seat of mortal pains, 
And lightened o'er the pallid countenance. 
Yet, to the loval and the brave, who lie 
In the blank earth, neglected and forlorn, 
The passing Winds memorial tribute pay ; 
Tlic i'orrcnts chant their praise, inspiring 

scorn 
Of power usurped ; with proclamation high, 
And glad acknowledgment, of lawful sway. 



XXX. 

Who swerves from mnocence, who makes 

divorce 
Of that serene companion — a good name. 
Recovers not his loss : but walks with shame. 
With doubt, with fear, and haply with re- 
morse : 
And oft-times he — who, yielding, to the force 
Of chance-temptation, ere his journey end. 
From chosen comrade turns, or faithful 

friend — 
In vain shall rue the broken intercourse 
Not so with such as loosely wear the chain 
That binds them, pleasant River ' to thy 

side : — 
Through the rough copse wheel thou with 

hasty stride : 
I choose to saunter o'er the grassy plain. 
Sure, when the separation has been tried, 
That wc, who part in love, shall meet again 



The Kirk of Ulpha to the pilgrim's eye 

!s welcome as a star, that doth present 

Its shining forehead through the peaceful 
rent 

Of a black cloud diffused o'er lialf the sky ; 

Or as a fruitful palm-tree towering high ; 

Or the parched waste beside an Arab's 
tent ; 

Or the Indian tree whose branches, down- 
ward bent. 

Take root again, a boundless canopy. 

How sweet were leisure! could it yield no 
more 

Than "mid tliat wave-washed Churchyard 
to recline. 

From pastoral graves extracting thoughts 
divine ; 



Or there to pace, and mark the summits 

hoar 
Of distant moonlit mountains faintly shine, 
bootheti by the unseen River's gentle roar, 

XXXII. 

Not hurled precipitous from steep to 

steep ; 
Lingering no more 'mid flower-enamelled 

lands 
And blooming thickets ; nor by rocky bands 
Held , but in radiant progress toward the 

Deep 
Where mightiest rivers into powerless sleep 
Sink and forget their nature — nou- expands 
Majestic Duddon, over smooth flat sands 
Gliding in silence with unfettered sweep! 
Beneath an anipler sky a region wide 
Is opened round him ; — hamlets, towers, 

and towns, 
And blue-topped hills, behold him from 

afar ; 
In stately mien to sovereign Thames allied, 
."Spreading his bosom under Kentish downs, 
With commerce freighted, or triumphant 

war. 



CONCl.USION. 

But here no cannon thunders to the gale; 
Upon the wave no haughty pendants cast 
.'\ crimson spkn lor ; lowly is the mast 
That rises here, and humbly spread, the 

sail ; 
While, less disturbed than in the narrow 

Vale 
Through which with strange vicissitudes he 

passed, 
The Wanderer seeks that receptacle vast 
Where all his unambitious functions fail. 
And may thy Poet, cloud-born Stream ! hi 

free — 
The sweets of earth contentedly resigned, 
And each tumultuous working left behind 
At seemly distance — to advance like The* ; 
Prepared, in peace of heart, in calm iK 

mind 
And soul, to mingle with Eternity '. 

XXXIV. 

AFTER-THOUGHT. 

/ thought of Thee, my partner and my 

g7(ide. 
As beinj^ pest away.— Vain sympathies.' 



334 



yoEMS OF Tin-: imagination. 



For^ backzvard, Duddon .' as I cast my 

eyes, 
I see what was, and is, atid wdl abide ; 
Stdl glides the Stream, and shall forever 

glide ; [dies , 

The Form remains, the Function never 
While we, the brave, the mighty, and the 

wise, 
We AfeUf uho in our morn of youth defied 



The elcmeftts, must vanish , — be it so 
Enough, if something from our hands hare 

power 
To live, and act, and serve the future 

hour , 
And if as tinvard the silent tomb we go^ 
Through love, through hope, and faitli's 

transcendent doiver, 
Wc feel that we are greater than we know. 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE ; 

OR, 

THE FATE OF THE NORTONS. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



During the Summer of 1807, I visited, for the first time, the beautiful country that sur- 
rounds Bolton Priory, in Yorkshue ; and the Poem of the White Doe, founded upon a Tradi- 
tion connected with that place., was composed at the close of the same year. 



DEDICATION. 



In trellised shed with clustering roses gay, 
And, Mary ! oft beside our blazing fire, 
When years of wedded life were as a day 
Whose current answers to the heart's de- 
sire. 
Did we together read in Spenser's Lay 
How Una, sad of soul — in sad attnx, 
The gentle Una, of celestial birth, 
To seek her Knight went wandering o'er 
the earth. 

Ah, then Beloved ! pleasing was tlu. smart, 
And the tear precious in compassion shed 
For Her, who, pierced by sorrow's thrilling 

dart, 
Did meekly bear the pang unmerited ; 
Meek as that emblem of her lowly heart 
The milk-white Lamb which in a line she 

led,— 
And faithful, loyal in her innocence, 
Like the brave Lion slain in her defence. 



Notes could we hear as of a fairy shell 
Attuned to words with sacred wisdom 

fraught ; 
Free Fancy prized each specious miracle, 
And all its finer inspiration caught', 
Till in the bosom of our rustic Cell, 
We by a lamentable change were taugl.t 
That '' bliss with mortal Man may not 

abide " 
How nearly joy and sorrow are allied ! 

For us the stream of fiction ceased to flow, 

For us the voice of melody was mute. 

— But, as soft gales dissolve the dreary 

snow. 
And give the timid herbage leave t« shoot, 
Heaven's breathing influence failed not to 

bestow 
A timely promise of unlooked-for fruit, 
Fair fruit of pleasure and serene content 
From blossoms wild of fancies innocent. 



POEMS OF Tim r.rrACLVATIOJV. 



335 



It soothed us — it beguiled us— then, to liear 
Once more of troubles wrought by magic 

spell 
And griefs whose airy motion comes not 

near 
The pangs that lempt the Spirit to rebel ; 
Then, with mild Una in her soi)er cheer, 
High over hill and low adown tlie dell 
Again wc wandered, willing to partake 
All that she suffered for her dear Lord's 

sake. 

Then, too, this Song of tnine once more 
could please. 

Where anguish, strange as dreams of rest- 
less sleep, 

Is tempered and allayed by svmpatliies 

Aloft asccndmg, and descending deep, 

Even to the inferior Kmds ; whom forest- 
trees 

Protect from bcatmg sunbeams, and the 
sweep 

Of the sharp winds ; — fair Creatures ! — to 
whom Heaven 

A calm and sinless life, with love, hath 
given. 

This tragic Story cheered us ; for it speaks 
Of female patience wmning firm repose ; 
And, of the recompense that conscience 

seeks, 
A bright, encouraging, example shows; 
Needful when o'er wide realms the tempest 

breaks, 
Needful amid life's ordinary woes ; — 
Hence, not for them unfitted who would 

bless 
A happy hour with holier happiness. 

He serves the Muses erringly and ill, 
Whose aim is pleasure light and fugitive • 
O, that my mind were equal to fulfil 
The comprehensive mandate which they 

give — 
Va'.n as])iration of an earnest will ! 
Yet in this moral .Stra'in a power may live, 
Beloved Wife I such solace to imjiart 
As It hath yielded to thy tender heart. 

"Action is transitory— a step, a blow, 

The motion of a muscle — this way or that — 

'Tis done ; and in the after-vacancy 

We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed . 

Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, 

And has the natur. of infinity. 

Yet through that darkness (infinite though 

it seem 
And irremovable) gracious opening lie, 



By which the soul— with patient steps of 

thought 
Now toiling, wafted now on wings of 

prayer — 
May pass in hope, and though from the 

mortal bonds 
Yet undelivered, rise with sure ascent 
Even to the fountain-head of peace divine." 

RYDAL IMoUNT, WliSTMORELAiND, 
Af'ril 20, 1S15. 



"They that deny a God destroy Man's 
nobility: for certainly M.m is of kinn to tlie 
Beast by his Body ; and if he be not of kuin to 
God by liis Spirit, he is a base ignoble Crea- 
ture. It destroys likewise Majinanimuy, and 
the raising of humane Nature . for take an ex- 
ample of a Dogg, and mark wiiat a generosity 
and courage he will put on, wlien he finds 
himself maintained by a Man, who to hmi is 
instead of a God, or Melif)V N.itura. Which 
courage is manifestly such, as tliat Creature 
without that confidence of abetter Nature than 
his own could never attain. So Man, when 
he resteth and assureth himself upon Divine 
protection and favour, gathercth a force and 
faith which human Nature in itself could not 
obtain." Lord Hacon. 



CANTO FIRST. 

From Bolton's old monastic tower 
The bells ring loud witii gladsome power; 
The sun shines bright ; the fields are gay 
With people in their best array 
Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf. 
Along the banks of crystal Wharf, 
Through the vale retired and lowly, 
Trooping to that summons holy. 
And. up among the moorlands, see 
What sprinklings of blithe company ! 
Of lasses and of shepherd grooms, 
That down the steep hills force their way 
Like cattle through the budded brooms ; 
Path, or no path, what care they.'' 
And thus in joyous mood they hie 
To Bolton's mouldering Priory. 

What would they there ?— Full fiftv ycar« 
That sumptuous Pile, with all its peers, 
Too harshly hath been doomed to taste 
The bitterness of wrong and waste ; 
Its courts are ravaged ; but the tower 
Is standing with a voice of power, 
That ancient voice which wont to call 
To mass or some high festival ; 
And in the shattcreil fabric's heart 
Remaineth one protected pan; 



33^ 



POEMS OF THE /MACfNATrC.V. 



A Chapel, like a wild-bird's nest, 
Closely embowered and trimly drest ; 
And thither yoimg and old repair. 
This Sabbath-day, for praise and prayer. 

Fast the church-yard fills ;— anon 
Look again, and they all arc gone : 
The cluster round the porch, and the folk 
Who sate in the shade of the P'rior's Oak ! 
And scarcely have they disappeared 
Ere the prelusive hymn is heard ; — 
With one consent tlie people rejoice, 
Filling the church with a lofty voice ! 
Thev sing a service which they feci ; 
For 'tis the sunrise now ot zeal ; 
Of a pure faith the vernal prime — 
In great Eliza's golden tmie 

A moment ends the fervent din, 
And all is luished, without and within ; 
For though the priest, more tranquilly, 
Recites the holy liturgy. 
The only voice which you can hear 
Is the river murmuring near. 
— When soft !— the dusky trees between, 
And down the path through the open 

green. 
Where is no living thing to be seen; 
And through yon gateway, where is found, 
Beneath the arch with ivy bound. 
Free entrance to the church-yard ground — 
Comes gliding in with lovely gleam. 
Comes gliding in serene and slow. 
Soft and silent as a dream, 
A solitary Doe ! 
White she is as lily of June, 
And beauteous as the silver moon 
When out of sight the clouds are driven 
And she is left alone in heaven ; 
Or like a ship some gentle day 
In sunshine sailing far away, 
A glittering ship, that hath the plain 
Of ocean for her own domain. 

Eie silent in your graves, ye dead ! 
Lie quiet in your church-yard bed ! 
Ve living, tend your holy cares : 
Ye multitude, pursue your prayers; 
And blame not me if my heart and sight 
Are occupied with one delight ! 
'Tis a work for salibath hours 
If I with this bright Creature go ; 
Whether she be of forest bowers, 
From the bowers of earth below ; 
Or a Spirit for one day given, 
A pledge of grace from purest heaven. 



What harmonious pensive changes 
Wait upon her as she ranges 
Round and through this Pile of state 
Oveilhiown and desolate ! 
Now a step or two her way 
Leads through space of open day, 
Where the enamoured sunny light 
Brightens her that was so bright ; 
Now doth a delicate shadow fall, 
trails upon her like a breath, /» 

From some lofty arch or wall. 
As she passes underneath : 
Now some gloomy nook partakes 
Of the glory that she makes,— 
High-ribbed vault of stone, or cell, 
With perfect cunning framed as well 
Of stone, and ivy, and the spread 
Of the elder's bushy head ; 
Some jealous and forbidding cell, 
That doth the living stars repel, 
And where no flower hath leave to dwell. 



The presence of this wandering Doe 
Fills many a damp obscure recess 
With lustre of a saintly show ; 
And, reappearing, she no less 
Sheds on the flowers that round her blovv 
A more than sunny liveliness. 
But say, among these holy places. 
Which thus assiduously she paces. 
Comes she with a votary's task. 
Rite to perform, or boon to ask .-' 
Fair Pilgrim ! harbors she a sense 
Of sorrow, or of reverence .-' 
Can she be grieved for quire or shrine, 
Crushed as if by wrath divine ? 
For what survives of house where God 
Was worshipped, or where Man abode ; 
For old magnificence undone; 
Or for the gentler work begun 
By Nature, softening and concealing, 
And busy with a hand of healing ? 
Mourns she for lordly chamber's hearth 
That to the sapling ash gives birth ; 
For dormitory's length laid bare 
Where the wild rose blossoms fair , 
Or altar, whence the cross was rent, 
Now rich with mossy ornament? 
— She sees a warrior carved in stone, 
Among the thick weeds, stretched alone. 
A warrior, with his shield of pride 
Cleaving humbly to his side. 
And hands in resignation prest. 
Palm to palm, on his tranquil breast ; 
As little she regards the sight 
As a common preacher might . 



POEMS OF THE iMiGlJVATlON. 



337 



If she be doomed to inward care, 

Or service, it must he elsewhere. 

— But hers are eyes serenely bright. 

And on she moves — with pace how h'c^ht ! 

Nor spares to stoop her head, and taste 

Tlie dewy turf with flowers bestrown ; 

And thus she fares, until at last 

Heside the ridge of a grassy grave 

In quietness she lays her down ; 

Gentle as a weary wave 

Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died, 

Again&t an anchored vessel's side ; 

Even so, without distress, doth she 

Lie down m peace, and lovingly. 

The day is placid in its going. 
To a hngering motion bound. 
Like the crystal stream now flowing 
With its softest summer sound : 
So the balmy minutes pass. 
While this radiant Creature lies 
Couched upon the dewy grass, 
Pensively with downcast eyes. 
— But now again the people raise 
Witii awful cheer a voice of praise ; 
It is tlie last, the parting song ; 
And from the temple forth tliey tliicng, 
And quickly spread themselves aliroad, 
While each pursues his several road. 
But some — a variegated band 
Of middle-aged, and old, and young, 
And little children by the hand 
Upon their leading mothers hung — 
With mute obeisance gladly paid 
Turn towards the spot, where, full ni view. 
The wliite Doe to her service true, 
Her sabbath couch has made. 

It was a solitary mound • 
Which two spears' length of level ground 
Did from all other graves divide; 
As if in some respect of pride , 
Or melancholy's sickly mood. 
Still sliy of human neighliorhood ; 
Or guilt, that humbly would express 
A penitential loneliness. 

" Look, there she is, my Child ! draw 

near 
She fears not, wherefore should we fear ? 
She means no harm ; "—but still the Boy, 
To whom the words were softly said. 
Hung back, and smiled, and blushed for 

joy, 
A shame-faced blusli of glowing red ! 
Again the Mother whispered lf)w, 
" Now you have seen the famous Doe ; 



From Rylstone she hath found her way 
Over the lulls this sabbath day : 
Her work, whate'er it be, is done, 
And she will depart when we are gone ; 
Thus doth she keep, from year to year, 
Her sabbath morning, foul or fair." 



Bright was the Creature, as in dreamt 
The Boy had seen her, yea, more bright, 
But IS she truly what she seems ? 
He asks with insecure delight, 
Asks of himself, and doubts, — and still 
The doubt returns against his will : 
Though he, and all the standers-by, 
Ciuld tell a tragic history 
Of facts divulged, wherein appear 
Substantial motive, reason clear. 
Why thus the milk-white Doe is found 
Couchant beside that lonely mound ; 
And why she duly loves to pace 
The circuit of this hallowed place. 
Nor to the Child's irquiring mind 
Is such perplexity confined : 
For, spite of sober Truth that sees 
A world of fixed remembrances 
Which to this mystery belong. 
If, undeceived, my skill can trace 
The characters of every face, 
There lack not strange delusion here, 
Conjecture vague, and idle fear. 
And superstitious fancies strong, 
Which do the gentle Creature wrong. 

That bearded, staff -supported Sire— 
Who in his boyhood often fed 
Full cl'.eerily on convent-bread 
And heard old tales by the convent-fire, 
And to Ins grave will go with scars, 
Relics of long and distant wars — 
That Old Man, studious to expound 
The spectacle, is mounting high 
To days of dim antiquity ; 
When Lady Aaliza mourned 
Her Son, and felt in her despair 
The pang of unavailing prayer ; 
Her Son in Wharf's abysses drowned. 
The noble Boy of Egremound. 
From which affliction — when the grace 
Of Ciod had in her heart found place— 
A pious structure, fair to see, 
Rose up, this stately Priory ! 
The Lady's work ; — but now laid low ; 
To the grief of her soul that doth cnme and 

In the beautiful form of this innocent Docj 



538 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Which, though seemingly doomed in its 

breast to sustain 
A softened remembrance of sorrow and 

pain. 
Is spotless, and holy, and gentle, and 

bright , 
And glides o'er the earth like an angel of 

light. 

Pass, pass who will, yon chantry door ; 
And, through the chink in the fractuied 

floor 
Look down, and see a griesly sight ; 
A vault where the bodies are buried up- 
right ! 
There, face by face, and hand by hand. 
The Claphams and Maiilevcrers stand ; 
And, in liis place, among son and ^irc. 
Is |ohn de Clapham, that fierce Esquire, 
A valiant man, and a name of dread 
In the ruthless wars of tlic White and i\cd ; 
Who dragged Earl Pembroke from P>anbuiy 

church 
And smote off his head on the stones of the 

porch ! 
Look down among them, if you dare ; 
Oft does the White Doe loiter there, 
Prying into the darksome rent ; 
Nor can it be with good intent : 
So thinks that Dame of haughty air, 
WIk) iiath a Page her book to hold. 
And wears a frontlet edged with gold. 
Harsh thoughts with her high mood agree — 
Who CDUiUs among iier ancestry 
Earl Pembroke, slain so impiously ! 

That slender Vfmth, a scholar pale, 
From (Kford come to his native vale, 
lie also hath his own conceit : 
It is, thinks he, tlie gracious Fairy, 
Who loved the Sheplierd-lord to meet 
In his wanderings solitary : 
Wild notes she in his hearing sang, 
A song of Nature's hidden powers ; 
That whistled like the wind, and rang 
Among the rocks and liolly bowers. 
'Twas said that She all shapes could wear ; 
And oftentimes before him stood, 
Among the trees of some thick wood. 
In semblance f)f a lady fair ; 
And taught him signs, and showed him 

sights, 
In Craven's dens, on Cunibiian heiglits; 
When under cloud of fear he lay, 
A shepherd clad in homelv gray ; 
Nor left him at his later day. 



And hence, when he, with spear and shicld| 

Rode full of years to Flodden-field, 

His eye could see the hidden spring, 

;\nd how the current was to How; 

The fatal end of Scotland's King, 

.A.nd all that hopeless overthrow. 

But not in wars did he delight. 

This Clifford wished for worthier might; 

Nor in broad pomp, or courtly state ; 

Iliin his own thoughts did elevate, — 

Most happv in the shy recess 

(3f Barden's lowly quietness. 

And choice of studious friends had he 

Of [Jolton's dear fraternity ; 

Who, standing on this old church towers 

In many a calm propitious hour, 

Perused, with him, the starry sky. 

Or, in their cells, with him did pry 

I'^or other lore,— by keen desire 

Urged to close toil with chemic fire ; 

in quest belike of transmutations 

Kicii as the mine's most bright creations 

i;ut they and their good works are fled, 

And all is now disquieted — 

.^nd peace is none, for living or dead ! 

.\h, pensive .Scholar, think not so, 
lUit l(j(;k again at the radiant Ooe! 
What (|uict watch she seems to keep, 
Alone, beside tiiat grassy heap ! 
Why mention other thoughts unmeet 
I'or vision so composed and sweet ? 
While stand the people in a ring, 
(i.izmg, doubting, questioning; 
\'ea, many overcome in spite 
( )f recollections clear and bright ; 
Which yet do unto some impart 
y\ii undisturbed repose of heart. 
\nd all the assembly own a law 
{ )f orderly respect and awe ; 
P)ut see — they vanish one by one. 
And last, the Doe herself is gone. 

Harp ! we have been full long beguHed 
By vague thoughts, lured by fancies wild ; 
To which, with no reluctant strings. 
Thou hast attuned thy murmurings ; 
And now before tb.is Pile we stand 
In solitude, and utter peace : 
P.iit, Harp ! thy murmurs may not cease- 
I A Spirit, with his angelic wings. 
In soft and breeze-like visitings, 
1 las touched thee — and a Spirit's hand : 
A voice is with us — a command 
I'o chant, in strains of heavenly glory, 
A tale of tears, a mortal story I 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



339 



CANTO SECOND. 

The Harp in lowliness obeyed ; 

And first we sana; of the green-wood shade 

And a solitary Maid ; 

lieirinning, where the song must end, 

With her, and with her sylvan Friend ; 

Tlie Friend who stood before her sigh* 

Her only unextinguished light ; 

Her last companion in a dearth 

Ot love, upon a hopeless earth. 

For She it was— this Maid, who wrought 
Meekly, with foreboding thought, 
In vermeil colors and in gold 
An unblest work ; which, standing by, 
Her Father did with joy behold, — 
Exulting in its imagery ; 
A banner, fashioned to fulfil 
Too perfectly his headstrong will . 
For on this Banner had her hand 
Embroidered (such her Sire's command) 
The sacred Cross ; and figured there 
The five dear wounds our Lord did bear ; 
Full soon to be uplifted high, 
And float in rueful company ! 

It was the time when England's Queen 
Twelve years had reigned, a Sovereign 

dread ; 
Nor yet the restless crown had bse 
Disturbed upon her virgin head ; 
liut now the mly-working Nortli 
Was ripe to send its thousands forth, 
A potent vassalage, to fight 
In Percy's and in Neville's right, 
Twn Pearls fast leagued in disroiiteiit, 
Who gave their wishes open vent ; 
And boldly urged a general plea, 
Tiie rites of ancient piety 
To bL' triumphantly restored, 
r.y the stern justice of the sword ! 
And that same Banner, on whose breast 
The blameless Lady had ex|)rest 
Memorials chosen to give life 
Ami sunshine lo a d.ingerous strife ; 
That Banner, waiting for the Call, 
Stood quietly in Rylstone-hall. 

It came ; and Francis Norton said, 
" () I*"athcr ! rise not in this fray — 
The hairs are white upon your head ; 
Dear Father, hear me when I say 
It is for you too late a day ! 
Bethink you of your own good name : 
A just and gracious (jueen have we, 
A pure religion, and thf^ claim 
Of peace on our humanity. — 



'Tis meet that I endure your scorn ; 
I am your son, your eldest born ; 
But not for lordship or for land, 
My P'ather, do I clasp your knees ; 
The Banner touch not. stay your hand^ 
This multitude of men disband, 
And live at home in blameless ease , 
For these my brethren's sake, for me ; 
And, most of all, for Emily ! " 

Tumultuous noises filled the hall 
And scarcely could the Father hear 
That name — pronounced with a dying 

fall— 
The name of his only Daughter dear, 
As on the banner which stood near 
He glanced a look of holy pride, 
And his moist eyes were glorified ; 
Then did he seize the staff, and say •. 
" Thou, Richard, bear'st thy father's name; 
Keep thou this ensign till the day 
When I of thee require the same. 
Thy i^lace be on my better hand ; — 
And seven as true as thou, I see. 
Will cleave to this good cause and me '" 
He spake, and eight brave sons straightway 
All followed him, a gallant band 1 

Thus, with his sons, when forth ho came, 
The sight was hailed with loud acclaim 
And din of arms and minstrelsy. 
From all his warlike tenantry, 
All horsed and harnessed with Inm t« 

ride, — 
A coice to which the hills replied ! 

But Francis, in the vacant hall. 
Stood silent under dreary weight,— 
A phantasm, in which roof and wall 
Shook, tottered, swam before his sight; 
A jihantasm like a dream of night ! 
Thus overwhelmed, and desolate. 
He found his way to a iiostern-gate ; 
And, when he waked, his languid eye 
Was on tlie calm and silent sky; 
With air about him breathing sweet, 
And earth's green grass beneath his feet .; 
Nor did he fail ere long to hear 
A sound of military cheer. 
Faint — but it reached that sheltered spot • 
He heard, and it disturlx^d him not. 

There stood he, leaning on a lance 
Which he had grasped unknowingly. 
Had blindly grasped in tliat strong •ranci'. 
That dimness of heart agony ; 
Ihere stood he, cleansed from the despair 
And sorrow of his fruitless prayer 



340 



POEMS OF THE IMAGTNATTON. 



The past he cahnly hath reviewed : 
But where will be the tortitude 
Of this brave man, when he shall see 
That Form beneath the spreading tree 
And know that it is Emily ? 

He saw her where in open view 
She sate beneath the spreading yew — 
Her head upon her lap, concealing 
In solitude lier bitter feeling: 
" Might ever son conunand a sire, 
The act were justified to-day.'' 
This to himself — and to the Maid, 
VViiom now he had approached, he said — 
" Gone are they, — they have their desire ; 
And 1 with thee one hour will stay, 
To give thee comfort if I may.'' 

She heard, but looked not up, nor spake : 
And sorrow moved him to partake 
Her silence ; then his thoughts turned 

round. 
And fervent words a passage found. 

" Gone are they, bravely, though misled ; 
With a dear Fatiier at their head! 
The Sons obey a natural lord ; 
The Father had given solemn word 
To noble Percy ; and a force 
Still stronger bends him to his course. 
This said, our tears to-day may fall 
As at an innocent funeral. 
In deep and awful channel runs 
This sympathy of Sire and Sons ; 
Untried our brothers have been loved 
With heart by simple nature moved ; 
And now their faithfulness is proved: 
For faithful we must call them, bearing 
That soul of conscientious daring. 
— There were they all in circle — there 
Stood Richard, Ambrose. Christopher, 
John with a sword that will not fail, 
And Marmaduke in fearless mail. 
Ami those bright Twins were side by side, 
And tliere, by fresh hopes beautified, 
Stood He, whose arm yet lacks the power 
Ot man, our youngest, fairest flower ! 
I, l)y the right of eldest born, 
And in a second father's place, 
Presumed to grapple with their scorn, 
And meet their ])ity face to face ; 
Yea, trusting In God's holy aid, 
I to my Father knelt and prayed ; 
And one, the pensive Marmaduke, 
Methought, was yielding inwardly, 
And would have laid his purpose by, 
But for a glance of his Father's eye. 
Which 1 myself could scarcely brook. 



Then be we, each and all, forgiven! 
Thou, chiefly thou, my Sister dear. 
Whose pangs are registered in hea\on — 
The stifled sigii, the hidden tear, 
And smiles, that dared to take their place 
Meek filial smiles, upon thy face, 
As that unhallowed Banner grew 
Beneath a loving old Man's view. 
Thy part is done— thy painful part 
Be thou then satisfied in heart ! 
A further, though far easier task. 
Than thine hath been, my duties ask ; 
With theirs my efforts cannot blend, 
I cannot for such cause contend ; 
Their names 1 utterly forswear ; 
But I in body will be there. 
Unarmed and naked will I go, i 

Be at their side, come weal or woe ' 

On kind occasions I may wait, 
See, hear, obstruct, or mitigate. 
Bare breast 1 take and an empty hand."*— 
Therewith he threw away the lance. 
Which he had grasped in that strong trance ; 
Sjiurned it, like something that would stand 
Between him and the pure intent 
Of love on which his soul was bent. 

" For thee, for thee, is left the sense 
Of trial past without offence 
To God or man ; such innocence. 
Such consolation, and the e.xcess 
Of an unmerited distress ; 
In that thy very strength must lie. 
— O Sister, 1 could prophesy ! 
The time is come that rings the knell 
Of all we loved, and bved so well : 
Hope nothing, if 1 thus may si)eak 
To thee, a woman, and thence weak 
Hope nothing, 1 repeat ; for we 
Are doomed to perish utterly : 
'Tis meet that thou with me divide 
The thought while 1 am by thy side, 
Acknowledging a grace in this, 
A comfort in the dark abyss. 
I>ut look not for me when I am gone, 
.And be no farther wrought upon ; 
Farewell all wishes, all debate, 
All prayers for this cause, or for that I 
Weep, if that aid thee ; but depend 
Upon no help of outward friend ; 
Es])ouse thy doom at once, and cleave 
'J'o fortitude without reprieve. 
For we must fall, both we and ours — 
This Mansion and these pleasant bovvers, 



I 



* See the Old Ballad, - 
North." 



Tlie Rising of the 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



341 



Walks, pools, and arbors, homestead, hall— 

Our fate is tlicirs, will reach them all ; 

Tlie youn^; horse must forsake h's manger, 

And learn to glory in a Stranger ; 

Tl'.e iiavvk forget his perch ; the hound 

Be parted from his ancient ground: 

The blast will sweep us all away — 

One desolation, one decay ! 

And even this Creature;" which wordi 

saying. 
He pointed to a lovely Doe, 
A few steps distant, feeding, straying ; 
Fair creatur?, and more white than snow I 
" Even she will to her peaceful woods 
Return, and to her murmuring floods, 
And be in heart and soul the same 
She was before she hitlicr came ; 
Ere she had learned to love us all, 
IL-rself beloved in Rylstone-hall. 
— But thou, n^.y Sister, doomed to be 
TIio last lec.f on a blasted tree ; 
If not in vain we breathed the breath 
Together of a purer faith ; 
If hand in hand we have been led. 
And thou, (O liappy thought this day !) 
Not seldom foremost in the way ; 
If on one thought our minds have fed, 
If we have in one meaning read ; 
If, when at home our private weal 
Hath suffered from the shock of z 
Together we have learned to prize 
Forbearance and self-sacrifice ; 
If we like combatants have fared. 
And for this issue been prepared ; 
If tliou art beautiful, and youth 
And thought endue thee with all truth — 
Be strong ; — be wortliy of the grnce 
Of (lod, and fill thy destined place ; 
A Soul, by force of sorrows high, 
l^plifted to the purest sky 
Of undisturbed humanity !" 

He ended. — or she heard ro more ; 
He led lier from the yew-tree sliade, 
Antlat Hie mansion's silent doo-, 
He kissed the consecrated Maid, 
And down the valley thcMi pursued, 
Alone, the armed Multitude. 



CANTO THIRD. 

Now joy for you who from the towers 
Of Brancepeth look in doubt and fear, 
Telling melancholy hours ! 
J'roclami it. let your Masters hear 
That Norton with hU band is near! 



The watchmen from their station high 
Pronounced the word, — and tlie Earls descry, 
Well-pleased, the armed Company 
Marching down the banks of Were. 

Said fearless Norton to the pair 
Cione forth to greet him on the plain — 
'• This meeting, noble Lords ! looks fair, 
I bring with me a goodly train ; 
Their hearts are with you : hill and dale 
Have helped us : Ure we crossed, and Swale 
And horse and harness followed — see 
Tlie best part of their Yeomanry! [mine, 
— Stand forth, my Sons ! — these eight arc 
Wiiom to this service 1 commend ; 
Which may soe'er our fate incline, 
These will be faithful to the end ; 
They are my all " — voice failed him here — 
" My all save one, a Daughter dear ! 
Whom 1 have left, Love's mildest birth, 
The meekest Child on this blessed earth. 
I had — but these arc by my side. 
These Eight, and this is a day of pride! 
The time is ripe. With festive din 
Lo ! how the people are flocking in,— 
Like hungry fowl to the feeder's hand 
When snow hes heavy upon the land." 

He spake bare truth ; for far and near 
From every side came noisy swarms 
Of Feasants in their 1 /iiiiely gear , 
And, mixed with these, to Brancepeth came 
Grave Gentry of estate and name. 
And Captains known for worth in arms ; 
And prayed the Earls in self-defence 
To rise, and prove their innocence. — 
" Rise, noble Earls, put forth your might 
For holy Church, and the People's right ! " 

The Norton fixed, at this demand, 
H's eye upon Northumberland, 
And said : " The Minds of Men will own 
No loyal rest while England's Crown 
Remains without an Heir, the bait 
O. strife and factions desperate ; 
\Vlio, paying deadly hate in kind 
Through all things else, in this can find 
A mutual hope, a common mind ; 
And plot, and pant to overwhelm 
All ancient honor .n the realm. 
— Brave Earl^ ! to whose heroic veins 
Our noblest blood is given in trust. 
To you a suffering State complains, 
And ye must raise her from the *ust. 
With wishes of still bcjlder scope 
On you we look, with dearest hope; 
Even for our Altars — tor the prize 
In Heavt.a, of life that never die» \ 



342 



POEMS OF riiE imagixation: 



For the old and holy CInirch wc mourn, 

And must in joy to lier return. 

I?ehold ! " — and from his Son whose stand 

Was on his ri^ht, from tliat guardian hand 

He took the I5anncr, and unfurled 

Tlie precious folds—" behold," said he, 

" The ransom of a sinful world ; 

Let this your preservation be ; 

The wounds of hands and feet and side, 

And the sacred Cross on which Jesus died 

— This bring I from an ancient hearth, 

These Records wrought in pledge of love 

By hands of no ignoble birth, 

A Maid o'er whom the blessed Dove 

Vouchsafed in gentleness to brood 

While she the holy work pursued." 

" Uplift the standard ! " was the cry 

From all tiie listeners that stood round, 

" Plant it,— by tiiis we live or die." 

'J'he Norton ceased not for that sound, 

But said ; " The prayer which ye have heard, 

Mucii injured Earls ! by these preferred, 

Is offered to the Saints, the sigh 

Of tens of thousands, secretly." 

" Uplift it !" cried once more the Band, 

And then a thouglitful pause ensued: 

" Uplift It ! " said Northumberland— 

Whereat from all the multiUide 

Who saw the Banner reared on high 

In all its dread emblazonry, 

A voice of uttermost joy brake out : 

The transport was rolled down the river of 

Were, 
And Durham, the time-honored Durham, 

did hear, 
And the towers of Saint Cuthbert were 

stirred by the shout ! 

Now was the North in arms : — they shine 
In warlike trim from Tweed to Tyne, 
At Percy's voice : and Neville sees 
His Followers gathering in from Tees, 
From Were, and all the little rills 
Concealed among the forked hills — 
Seven hundred Knights, Retainers all 
Of Neville, at their ^Master's call 
Had sate together in R;.by Hall ! 
Such strength that Earldom held of yore : 
Nor wanted at this time rich store 
Of well-appointed chivalry. 
— Not loth the sleepy lance to wield, 
And greet the old paternal shield, 
They heard the summons ;— and, further- 
more. 
Horsemen and Foot of each degree. 
Unbound by pledge of fealty, 
Appeared, with free and open hate 



Of novelties in Church and State ; 
KniglU, burgher, yeoman, and esquire; 
And Romish priest, in priest's attire. 
And thus, in aims, a zealous I Sand 
Proceeding under joint command. 
To Durham first their course they bear; 
And in Saint Cuthbert's ancient seat 
Sang mass,— and tore the book of prayer, - 
And trod the bible beneath their feet. 

Thence marching southward smooth and 
free 
" They mustered their host at Wetherby, 
Full sixteen tliousand fair to see ; " * 
The Choicest Warriors of the North! 
But none for beauty and for worth 
Like those eight sons — who, in a ring, 
(Ripe men, or blooming in life's spnng) 
r'ach with a lance, erect and tall, 
A falchion, and a buckler small, 
Stootl by their Sire, on Clifford-moor, 
To guard the Standard which he bore. 
On foot they girt their Father round ; 
And so will keep the appointed ground 
Where'er their march : no steed will he 
flenceforth bestride ;— triumphantly, 
He stands upon the grassy sod, 
Trusting himself to the earth, and Cod. 
Rare sight to embolden and insjiire ! 
Proud was the field of Sons and Sue; 
Of him the most ; and, sooth to say, 
No shape of man in all the array 
So graced the sunshine of that day. 
The monumental pomp of age 
Was with this goodly Personage ; 
A stature undepressed in size, 
Unbent, which rather seemed to ris«, 
In open victory o'er the weight 
Of seventy years, to loftier height ; 
Magnitic limbs of withered state ; 
A face to fear and venerate ; 
Eyes dark and strong ; and on his head 
Bright locks of silver hair, thick sjiread, 
Which a brown morion half concealed. 
Light as a hunter's of the field ; 
And thus, with girdle round his waist. 
Whereon the Bannei-staff might rest 
At need, he stood, advancing high 
The glittering, floating Pageantry. 

Who sees him ? — thousands see, and One 
W^ith unparticipated gaze; 
Who, 'mong those thousands, friend hath 

none. 
And treads in solitary ways, 
He, following, wheresoe'er he might. 



♦ From the old ballad. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



343 



Hath watched the Banner from afar, 

As shepherds watch a lonely star, 

Or mariners the distant light 

Tliat guides them through a stormy night. 

And now, upon a chosen plot 

Of rismg ground, yon heathy spot I 

He takes alone his far-off stand. 

With breast unmaiied, unweaponed hand. 

Bold IS his aspect ; but his eye 

Is pregnant with anxiety, 

While, like a tutelary Power, 

He there stands fixed from hour to hour : 

Yet sometimes in Jiiore humble guise, 

Upon the turf-clad height he lies 

Stretched herdsman-ii;cc, as if to bask 

]n sunshine were his only task, 

Or by his mantle's help to find 

A shelter from the nipping wind ; 

And thus, with short oblivion blest, 

His weary spirits gather rest. 

Agam he lifts his eyes ; and lo ! 

The pageant glancing to and fro ; 

And hope is wakened by the sight. 

He thence may learn, ere fall of night. 

Which way the tide is doomed to flow. 

To London were the Chieftains bent , 
But what avails the bold intent.? 
A Royal army is gone forth 
To quell the Rising of the North ; 
They march with Dudley at their head, 
And, in seven days' space, will to York be 

led!- 
Can such a mighty Host be raised 
Thus suddenly, and brought so near ? 
The Earls upon each other gazed. 
And Neville's cheek grew pale with fear ; 
For, with a high and valiant name, 
He bore a heart of timid frame ; 
And bold if both had been, yet they 
" Against so many may not stay." * 
Back therefore will they hie to seize 
A strong Hold on the banks of Tees ; 
There wait a favorable hour, 
Until Lord Dacre with his power 
From Naworth come ; and Howard's aid 
Be with them openly displayed. 

While through the Host, from man to 
man, 
A rumor of this purpose ran, 
The Standard trusting to the care 
Of him who^fieretofore did bear 
That charge;|impatient Norton sought 
The Chieftains to unfold his thought, 

• From the old Ballad. 



And thus abruptly spake;—" We yield 

(And can it be ?) an unfought field ! — 
How oft has strength, the strength (A 

heaven. 
To few triumphantly been given I 
Still do our very children boast 
Of mitred Thurston — what a Host 
He conquered ! — Sriw we not the Plain 
(And flying shall behold again) 
Where faith was proved t — while to battle 

moved 
The Standard, on the Sacred Wain 
That bore it, compassed round by a bold 
Fraternity of Barons old ; 
And with those gray-haired champions 

stood, 
Under the stately ensigns three. 
The infant Heir of Mowbray's blood 
All confident of victory ! — 
Shall Percy blush, then, for his name? 
Must Westmoreland be asked with shame 
Whose were the numbers, where the loss, 
In that other day of Neville's Cross? 
When the Prior of Durham with holy hand 
Raised, as the Vision gave command, 
Saint Cuthbert's Relic— far and near 
Kenned on the point of a lofty spear ; 
While the Monks prayed in Maiden's 

Bower 
To God descending in his power. 
Less would not at our need be due 
To us, who war against the Untrue ; — 
The delegates of Heaven we rise, 
Convoked the impious to chastise; 
We, we, the sanctities of old 
Would re-establish and uphold : 
Be warned " — His zeal the Chiefs con 

founded. 
But word was given and the trumpet 

sounded ; 
Back through the melancholy Host 
Went Norton, and resumed his post. 
Alas ! thought he, and have 1 borne 
This Banner raised with joyful pride, 
This hope of all posterity, 
By those dread symbols sanctified ; 
Thus to become at once the scorn 
Of babbling winds as they go by, 
A spot of shame to the sun's bright eye, 
To the light clouds a mockery ! 
— " Even these poor eight of mine would 

stem " — 
Half to himself, and half to them 
He spake — " would stem, or quell a force 
Ten times their number, man and horse : 
This by their own unaided might. 
Without their father in their sight, 



344 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Without the Cause for which they fight , 

A Cause, which on a needful day 

Would breed us thousands brave as they '* 

— So speaking, he his reverend head 

Raised towards that Imagery once more : 

But the familiar prospect shed 

Despondency unfelt before : 

K shock of intimations vain, 

Dismay, and superstitious pain, 

Fell on lum, with the sudden thought 

Of iier by whom the work was wrought . — 

Oh wherefore was her countenance bright 

Witli love divine and gentle light ? 

She would not, could not, disobey, 

But her Faith leaned another way. 

Ill tears she wept ; I saw them fall, 

I overheard her as she spake 

Sad words to that mute Animal, 

The White Doe, in the hawthorn brake ; 

She steeped, but not for Jesu's sake, 

This Cross in tears . by her, and One 

Unworthier far we are undone— 

Her recreant Brother — he prevailed 

Over that tender spirit — assailed 

Too oft, alas ! by her whose head 

In the cold grave hath long been laid \ 

She first in reason's dawn beguiled 

Her docile, unsuspecting Child : 

Far back — far back my mind must go 

To reach the well-spring of this woe ! 

While thus he brooded, music sweet 
Of border tunes was played to cheer 
The footsteps of a quick retreat ; 
But Norton lingered in the rear, 
Stung with sharp thoughts ; and ere the 

last 
From his distracted brain was cast, 
Before his Father, Francis stood, 
And spake in firm and earnest mood. 

" Though here I bend a suppliant knee 
In reverence, and unarmed, I bear 
In your indignant thoughts my share ; 
Am grieved this backward march to see 
So careless and disorderly. 
I scorn your Chiefs — men who would lead, 
And yet want courage at their need : 
Then look at them with open eyes I 
Deserve they further sacrifice ?-- 
If — when they shrink, nor dare oppose 
In open field their gathering foes, 
(And fast, from this decisive day. 
Yon multitude must melt away ;) 
If now I ask a grace not claimed 
While ground was left for hope ; un- 
blamed 



Be an endeavor that can do 
No injury to them or you. 
My Father ! 1 would help to find 
A place of shelter, till the rage 
Of cruel men do like the wind 
Exhaust itself and sink to rest ; 
Be Brother now to Brother joined I 
Admit me in the equipage 
Of your misfortunes, that at least, 
Whatever fate remain behind, 
I may bear witness in my breast 
To your nobility of mind ! " 

" Thou Enemy, my bant and blight I 
Oh ! bold to ft^h. the Coward's fight 
Against all good " — but why declare, 
At length, the issue of a prayer 
Which love had prompted, yielding scope 
Too free to one bright moment's hope? 
Su!'':ce it that the Son, who strove 
With fruitless effort to allay 
That passion, prudently gave way , 
Nor did he turn aside to prove 
His Brothers' wisdom or their love — 
I'.i.t calmly from the spot withdiew ; 
His best endeavors to renew. 
Should e'er a kindlier time ensue. 



I 

I 



CANTO FOURTH. 

'Tis night • in silence looking down. 

The M(jon, from cloudless ether, sees 

A Camp, and a beleaguered Town, 

And Castle like a stately crown 

On the steep rocks of winding Tees; — 

.■\nd southwanl far, with moor between, 

Hill-top, and fiood, and forest green, 

The bright Moon sees that vi.ll'^y small 

Where Rylstone's old sequestered Hall 

A venerable image yields 

Of quiet to the neighboring fields , 

While from one pillared chimney breathes 

The smoke, and mounts in silver wreathe. 

— The courts are hushed :, — for timely sleep 

The grey-hounds to their kennel creep \ 

The peacock in the bioad ash tree 

Aloft IS roosted for the night. 

He who in proud prosperity 

Of colors manifold and bright 

Walked round, affronting the davlight ; 

And higher still, above the bower 

Where he is perched, from yon lone Tower 

The hall-clock in the clear moonshine 

With glittering finger points at nine. 

Ah ! who could think that sadness here 
Hath -my sway .? or pain, or fear ? 



POEMS OF THE I MAG /NAT/ OAT. 



345 



A soft and liillinc: smind is heard 

Of streams inaudible by day , 

The parden pool's dark surface, stirred 

liy the night insects in their pi iv. 

Breaks into dimples small and brij;ht , 

A thousand thousand rings of light 

That shape thom.ielves and disappear 

Almost as soon as seen — and lo ! 

Not distant far, the milk-white Doe— 

The sam» who quietly was feeding 

On the green herb, and nothing licedmg, 

When Francis, uttering to the Maid 

Ills last words in the yew-tree shade, 

Involved whate'cr by love was brought 

Out of his heart, or crossed his thought 

Or chance presented to his eye, 

In one sad sweep of destiny— 

The same fair Creature, who hath found 

Her way into forbidden ground ; 

Where now — within this spacious plot 

For pleasure made, a goodly spot. 

With lawns and beds of flowers, and shades 

Of trelhs-work in long arcades, 

And cirque and crescent framed by wall 

Of close-chpt foliage green and tall. 

Converging walks, and fountains gay, 

And terraces in trim array — 

Beneath yon cypress spiring high, 

With pine and cedar spreading wide 

Their darksome boughs on either side. 

In open moonlight doth she he • 

Happy as others of her kind. 

That, far from human neighborhood, 

Range unrestricted as the wind, 

T'hrough park, or chase, or savage wood 

But see the consecrated Maid 
)Imerging from a cedar shade 
To open moonshine, where the Doe 
Beneath the cypress-spire is laid ; 
Like a patch of April snow — 
Upon a bed of herbage green, 
Lingering in a woody glade 
Or behind a rocky screen — 
Lonely relic ! which, if seen 
By the shepherd, is passed by 
With an inattentive eye. 
No more regard doth She bestow 
Upon the uncomplaining Doe 
Now couched at ease, though oft this day 
Not unperplexed nor free from jwiii, 
When slie had tried, and tried m vain. 
Approaching in her gentle way. 
To win some look of love, or gain 
Encouragement to sport or play ; 
Attempts which still the hoart-sick Maid 
Rejected, or with slight repaid. 



Yet Fmily is soothed , — the breeze 
Came fraught with kindly sympathies. 
As she approaci ed yon rustic Shed 
Hung with late-flowering woodbine, sjircad 
Along the walls and overhead. 
The fragrance of the breathing flowers 
Revived a memory of those hours 
When here, in this remote alcove, 
(While from the pendent woodbine came 
Like odors, sweet as if the same) 
A fondly-anxious Mother strove 
To teach her salutary fears 
And mysteries above her years. 
Yes, she is soothed; an Image faint, 
And yet not faint — a presence bright 
Returns to her— that blessed Saint 
Who with mild looks and language mild 
Instructed here her darling Child, 
Wh.ile yet a prattler on the knee, 
To worship in simplicity 
The invisible God, and take for guide 
The faith reformed and purified. 

'Tis flown — the Vision, and the scnje 
Of that beguiling influence ; 
" But oh ! thou Ar.gel from above, 
Mute Spirit of maternal love, 
That stood'st before my eyes, more clear 
Than ghosts are fabled to appear 
Sent upon embassies of fear; 
As thou thy presence hast to me 
Vouchsafed, in radiant ministry 
Descend on Francis ; nor forbear 
To greet him with a voice, and say ; — 
' If hope be a rejected stay. 
Do thou, my Christian Son, beware 
Of that most lamentable snare. 
The self-reliance of despair ! ' " 

Then from within the embowered retreat 
Where she had found a grateful seat 
Perturbed she issues. She will go ! 
Herself will follow to the war. 
And clasp her Father's knees;— ah, no I 
She meets the insuperable bar. 
The injunction by her Brother laid ; 
His parting charge — but ill obeyed — 
That interdicted all debate. 
All prayer for this cause or for that ; 
All efforts that would turn aside 
The headstrong current of their fate: 
F/cr dufy is to stand and icaif ; 
In resignation to abide 
The shock, and finally SF.rtiRn 
O'er pain and grif.f a triumph purb. 
—She feels it, and her pangs are checkedi 



34C 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



But now, as silently she jiaccd 

Tlie turf, and thought by thought was 

chased, 
Came One who, with sedate respect, 
Approaclied, and greeting her, thus spake ; 
" An old man's privilege I take : 
Dark is the time — a woeful day ! 
Dear daughter of attliction, say 
How can 1 serve you ? point the way." 

" Rights have you, and may well be bold : 
You with my father have grown old 
In friendship — strive — for his sake go — 
'J'lUH from us all the coining woe : 
This would 1 beg , but on my mind 
A passive stillness is enjoined. 
On you, if room for mortal aid 
7>e left, is no restriction laid ; 
You not forbidden to recline 
With hope upon the Will divine." 

" Hope," said the old Man, " must abide 
With all of us, whate'er betide. 
In Craven's Wilds is many a den, 
To shelter persecuted men ; 
Far under ground is many a cave, 
Where they might lie as in the grave, 
Until this storm hath ceased to rave : 
Or let them cross the River Tweed, 
And be at once from peril freed ! " 

" Ah, tempt me not ! " she faintly sighed ; 
" I will not counsel nor exhort, 
With my condition satisfied ; 
But you, at least, may make report 
Of what befalls ;— be this your task — 
This may be done ; — 'tis all I ask ! " 

She spake — and from the Lady's sight 
The Sire, unconscious of his age, 
Departed promptly as a Page 
Bound on some errand of delight. 
— The noble Francis— wise as brave, 
Thought he, may want not skill to save. 
With hopes in tenderness concealed, 
Unarmed he followed to the field , 
Him will I seek • the insurgent Powers 
Are now besieging Barnard's Towers, — 
*' Grant that the moon which shines this 

night 
May guide them in a prudent flight ! " 

8ut quick the turns of chance and 
change, 
And knowledge has a narrow range ; 
\Vhence idle fears, and needless pain, 
And wishes blind, and efforts vain. — 



The Moon may shine, but cannot be 

Their guide in flight — already she 

IJath witnessed their captivity. 

She saw the desperate assault 

Upon that hostile castle made;- 

But dark and dismal is the vault 

Where Norton and his sons are laid '. 

Disastrous issue ! — he had .said 

"This night yon faithless Towers nius 

yield 
Or we forever quit the field. 
— Neville is utterly dismayed, 
For promise fails of Howard's aid ; 
And Dacre to our call replies 
That he is unj^irepared to rise. 
My heart is sick ; — this weary pause 
Must needs be fatal to our cause. 
The breach is open — on the wall. 
This night, the Banner shall be planted !" 
— 'Twas done: his sons were with him— 

all; 
They belt him round with hearts un 

daunted. 
And others follow ;^Sire and Son 
Leap down into the court , — " 'I'is won"- 
They shout aloud — but Heaven decreed 
Tliat with their joyful shout should close 
The triumph oi a desperate deed 
Which struck with terror friends and foes I 
The friend shrinks back — the foe recoils 
From Norton and his filial band ; 
But they, now caught within the toils, 
Against a thousand cannot stand ; — 
The foe from numbers courage drew, 
And overpowered that gallant few. 
" A rescue for the Standard ! " cried 
The Father from within the walls ; 
But, see, the sacred Standard falls ! — 
Confusion through the camp spread wide: 
Some fled ; and some their fears detained: 
But ere the Moon had sunk to rest 
In her pale chambers of the west, 
Of that rash levy naught remained. 



CANTO FIFTH. 

High on a point of rugged ground 
Among the wastes of Rylstonc Fell, 
Above the loftiest ridge or mound 
Where foresters or shepherds dwell, 
An edifice of warlike frame 
Stands single — Nort(jn Tower its name — 
It fronts all quarters and looks round 
O'er path and road, and plaian and dell. 
Dark moor, and gleam of pool and strem 
Upon a prokpect without bound. 



j'o/-:,hs oi' -J in-: i magi nation. 



347 



The summit of tliis bold ascent — 
Though bleak and bare, and seldom free 
As I'endlc-lull or Pcnnygcnt 
From wind, or frost, or vajiors wet — 
Had often heard the soiinvl of glee 
When there the youtliful Nortons met, 
To practise g-imes and archery: 
llow proud aiul happy they ! the crowd 
Of Lookers-on liow jilcased and proud ! 
And from tlic scorching noon-ti. e sun, 
From sliowers, or wlicn the prize was won. 
They to the Tower withdrew, and there 
Would mirth run round, with generous fare ; 
And the stern old Lord of I'lylstonc-hall, 
Was happiest, proudest, of them all ! 

Dut now, his Child, with anguisii pale, 
Upon the height walks to and fro ; 
'Tis well thaf she hath heard the talc, 
Received the bitterness of woe : 
F\)r she had hoped, had hoped and feared, 
^uch rights did feeble natuie claim ; 
And oft her steps had hither steered, 
Tiiough not unconscious of self-blame ; 
For slie her brother's charge revered. 
Ills farewell words ; and by the sani" 
"\'ea by her brother's very name. 
Had, in her solitude, been cheered. 

Beside the lonely watch-rower stood 
That gray-haired Man of gentle blood, 
Whc with her Father had grown old 
In fiiendship; rival hunters they, 
And lellow warriors in their day : 
To Rylstone he the tidings brought ; 
Then on this height the Maid had sougl.t, 
And, gently as he could, had told 
The end of that dire Tragedy, 
Which It had been his lot to see. 

To him the Lady turned ; " You sa 
That Francis lives, he is not dead? " 

" Your noble brother hath been spared* 
To take his life they have not dared ; 
On him and on his high endeavor 
The liglit of praise shall shine forever! 
Nor did he (such Heaven's will) in vain 
His solitary course maintain ; 
Not vainly struggled in the might 
Of duty, seeing with clear sight ; 
He was their comfort to the last, 
Their joy till every pang was past. 

I witnessed when to York they came — 
What, Ladv, if their feet were tied ; 
They might deserve a good Man's blame; 
But marks of infamy and shame — 



These were their triumph, these their pride; 

Nor wanted 'mid the pre:,sing crowd 

Peep feeling, that found utterance loud, 

' Lo, Francis comes,' there were who cried, 

' A Prisoner once, but now set free ! 

'Tis well, for he the worst defied 

Through force of natural j^iety ; 

He rose not in this quarrel, he. 

For concord's sake and England's good, 

Suit to his Brothers (;ftcn made 

With tears, and of his Father ]>raycd - 

And when lie had in vain withstood 

Their jnirposc — then did he dividr. 

He partdd from them ; but at their side 

Now walks in unanimity. 

Then peace to cruelty and scorn, 

While to the prison they are borne, 

I'cacc, peace to all indignity ! ' 

And so in Prison were they laid — 
O hear me, hear me, gentle Maid, 
For 1 am come with jiower to bless, 
By scattering gleams through your distress 
Of a redeeming happiness. 
Me did a reverent pity move 
And privilege of ancient love ; 
And, in your service, making bold. 
Entrance 1 gained to that strong-liold. 

Your Father gave nie cordial greeting ; 
Dut to his purposes, that burned 
Within him, instantly returned : 
He was commanding and entreating, 
And said — ' We need not stop, my Son ! 
Thoughts press, and time is hurrying on, — 
And so to F"rancis he renewed 
His words, more calmly thus pursued. 

' Might this our enterprise have sped, 
Change wide and deep the Land had scciij 
A renovation from the dead, 
A spring-tide of immortal green • 
The darksome altars would have blazed 
Like stars when clouds are rolled away ; 
Salvation to all eyes that gazed, 
Once more the Rood had been ujiiaiscd 
To spread its arms, and stand for aye. 
Tlien, then — had 1 survived to see 
New life in Bolton Priory ; 
The voice restored, the eye of Truth 
Re-opened that inspired my youth ; 
To see her in her pomp arrayed — 
This Banner (for such vow I made) 
Should on the consecrated breast 
Of that same Temple have found rest: 
I would mvself have hung it high. 
Fit offering of glad victory ! 



I 



343 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



A shadow of sucli thought remains 
To cheer tliis sad and pensive time ; 
A solemn fancy yet sustains 
One feeble Being— bids me climb 
Even to th.e last — one effort more 
To attest my Faith, if not restore. 

Hear then,' said he, ' while I impart, 
My Son, the last wish of my heart. 
The Banner strive thou to regain ; 
And, if the endeavor prove not vain, 
r>car it — to whom if not to thee 
Shall 1 this lonely thought consign ?— 
I'ear it to Bolton Priory, 
And lay it on Saint Mary's shrine ' 
To witlier in the sun and breeze 
'Mid those decaying sanctities. 
There let at least the gift be kiid. 
The testimony there displayed : 
Bold proof that with no selfish aim, 
But for lost Faith and Christ's dear name, 
I helmeted a brow though white, 
And took a place in all men's sight; 
Yea, offered up this noble Brood. 
This fair unrivalled Brotherhood, 
And turned away from thee, my Son ! 
And left— but be the rest unsaid. 
The name untouched, the tear unshed ; — 
My wish is known, and 1 have done : 
Now promise, grant this one request. 
This dying prayer, and be thou blest ! ' 

Then Francis answered -' Trust thy Son, 
For, with God's will, it shall be done ' ' 

The pledge obtained, the solemn word 
Thus scarcely given, a noise was heard, 
And Officers appeared in state 
To lead the prisoners to their fate. 
They rose, oh ! wherefore should I fear 
To tell, or. Lady, you to hear? 
They rose — embraces none were given 
They stood like trees when earth and 

heaven 
Are calm ; they knew each oth'^r's worth. 
And reverently the Band went forth. 
They met, when they had reached the door, 
One with profane and harsh intent 
Placed there— tliat he might go before 
And, with that rueful Banner borne 
Aloft in sign of taunting scorn, 
Conduct them to their punishment ; 
So cruel Sussex, unrestrained 
By human feeling, had ordained. 
The unhappv Banner Francis saw. 
And, with a look of calm command, 
Inspiring universal awe, 



lie took it from the soldier's hand ; 
And all the jieople that sto(xl round 
Confirmed the deed in peace profound. 
— High transport did the Father shed 
Upon his Son— and they were led, 
Led on, and yielded up their breath ; 
Together died, a happy death ! — 
But Francis, soon as he had braved 
Tlmt insult, and the Banner saved, 
Athwart the unresisting tide 
Of the spectators occupied 
In admiration or dismay. 
Bore instantly his charge away." 

These things, which thus had in the sighl 
And hearing passed of Him who stood 
With Kmily, on the Watch-tower heigh 
In Kylstone's woeful neighborhood, 
He told; and oftentimes with voice 
Of p(jwer to comfort or rejoice ; 
For deepest sorrows that aspire 
Oo high, no transport ever higher. 
" Yes— God is rich in mercy," said 
The old Man to the silent Maid. 
"Yet, Lady! shines, through this black 

night, 
One star of aspect heavenly bright ; 
Your Brother lives— he lives — is come 
Perhaps already to his home ; 
Then let us leave this dreary place." 
Slie yicideci, and with gentle pace, 
Though without one uplifted look, 
To Rylstonc-hall her way she took. 

CANTO SIXTH. 

Why comes not Francis?— From the dole- 
ful City 
He fled, — and. in his flight, could hear 
The death-sounds of the Minster-bcll ; 
That sullen stroke pronounced farewell 
To Marmaduke, cut off from pity ! 
To Ambrose that ! and then a knell 
For him, the sweet half-opened Flower I 
For all — all dying in one hour ! 
— Why comes not Francis? Thoughts of 

love 
Should bear him to his Sister dear 
With the fleet motion of a dove ; 
Yea, like a heavenly messenger 
Of speediest wing, should he appear. 
Why comes he not ?— for westward fast 
Along the plain of York he past ; 
Reckless of what impels or leads. 
Unchecked he hurries on ; — nor heeds 
The sorrow, through the Villages, 
Spread by triumphant cruelties 



I 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



349 



Of vengeful military force, 
And punishment without remorse 
He marked not, heard not, as he fled ; 
"All but the suffering heart was dead 
For him abandoned to blank awe, 
To vacancy, and horror strong : 
And the first object which he saw, 
With conscious sight, as he swept along — 
It was the Banner in his hand ! 
He felt — and made a sudden stand. 

He looked about like one betrayed : 
What hath he done ? what promise made ? 
Oh weak, weak moment ! to what end 
Can such a vain oblation tend. 
And he the Bearer ? — Can he go 
Carrying this instrument of woe, 
And iind, find anywhere, a right 
'Jo excuse him in his Country's sight ? 
No ; will not all men deem the change 
A downward course, perverse and strange ? 
Here is it ; — but how ? when ? must she. 
The unoffending Emily, 
Again this piteous object see? 

Such conflict long did he maintain, 
Nor liberty nor rest could gain : 
His own life into danger brought 
By this sad burden — even that thought, 
Exciting self-suspicion strong, 
Swayed the brave man to his wrong. 
And how — unless it were the sens-» 
Of ail-disposing Providence, 
Its will unquestionably shown — 
How has the Banner clung so fast 
To a palsied and unconscious hand ; 
('lung to the hand to which it passed 
Without impediment ? And why 
But that Heaven's purpose might be known 
Doth now no hindiance meet his eye, 
No intervention, to withstand 
Fulfilment of a Fatlier's prayer 
Breathed to a -Son forgiven, and blest 
Wlien all resentments were at rest, 
And life in death laid the heart bare? — 
Then, like a spectre sweeping by, 
Rushed through his mind the prophecy 
Of utter desolation made 
To Emily in the yew-tree shade : 
He sighed, submitting will and p(,wer 
To the stern embrace of that grasping hour. 
" No choice is left, the deed is mine — 
Dead are tliey, dead!— and I will go. 
And, for their sakes, come weal or woe, 
Will lay the Relic on the shrine." 

-So forward with a steady will 
He went, and traversed plain and hill : 



And up the vale of Wharf his way 

Pursued ;— and, at the dawn of day, 

Attained a summit whence his eyes 

Could see the Tower of Bolton rise. 

There Francis for a moment's space 

Made halt — but hark ! a noise behind 

Of horsemen at an eager pace ! 

He heard, and with misgiving mind. 

— 'Tis Sir George Bowes who leads the 

Band : 
They come, by cruel Sussex sent ; 
Who, when the Nortons from the hand 
Of death had drunk their punishment, 
Betliought him, angry and ashamed, 
How Francis, with the Banner claimed 
As his own charge, had disappeared. 
By all the standers-by revered. 
His whole bold carriage (which had quelled 
Thus far the Opposer, and repelled 
All censure, enterprise so bright 
That even bad men had vainly striven 
Against that overcoming light) 
Was then reviewed, and prompt word given, 
Tliat lo what place soever fled 
He should be seized, alive or dead. 

The troop of horse have gained tlie 
height 
Where Francis stood in open sight. 
They hem him round — " Behold the proof," 
They cried, " the Ensign in his hand ! 
He did not arm, he walked aloof ! 
For why.? — to save his Father's land ; 
Worst Traitor of them all is he, 
A Traitor dark and cowardly ! " 

" I am no Traitor," Francis said, 
" Though this unhappy freight I bear : 
.And must not part with. But beware ; — 
Err not, by hasty zeal misled, 
Nor do a suffering spirit wrong. 
Whose self-reproaches are too strong !" 
At this he from the beaten road 
Retreated toward a brake of thorn, 
That like a place of vantage showed ; 
And there stood bravely, though forloin. 
In self-defence with warlike brow 
He stood, — nor weaponless was now ; 
He from a Soldier's hand had snatch .d 
A spear, — and, so protected, watched 
The Assailants, turning round and roimd , 
But from behind with treacherous wountl 
A .Spearman brought him to the ground. 
The guardian lance, as Francis fell, 
Diopped from him ; but his other hand 
The I'anner clench ;d; till, from out th« 
Band, 



rOEMS OF THE IMAGINATION: 



One, the most eager for the prize, 
Rubhed in ; and — while, O grief to tell ! 
A glimmering sense still left, with eyes 
Unclosed the noble Francis lay — 
Seized it, as hunters seize their prey ; 
But not before the warm life-blood 
Had tinged more deeply, as it flowed. 
The wounds the broidered Banner showed, 
Thy fatal work, O Maiden, innocent as 
good ; 

Proudly the Horsemen bore away 
The Standard ; and where Francis lay 
There was he left alone, unwept, 
And for two days unnoticed slept. 
For at that time bewildering fear 
Possessed the country, far and near ; 
But, on the third day, passing by, 
One of the Norton Tenantry 
Espied the uncovered Corse ; the Man 
Shrunk as he recognized the face. 
And to the nearest homesteads ran 
And called the people to the place. 
— How desolate is Rylstone-hall ! 
This was the instant thought of all ! 
And if the lonely Lady there 
Should be, to her they cannot bear 
This weight of anguish and despair. 
So, when upon sad thoughts had prest 
Thoughts sadder still, they deemed it best 
That, if the Priest should yield assent 
And no one hinder their intent, 
Then, they, for Christian pity's sake, 
In holy ground a grave would make ; 
And straightway buried he should be 
In the Church-yard of the Priory. 

Apart, some little space, was made 
The grave where Francis must be laid. 
,In no confusion or neglect 
Tins did they, — but in pure respect 
That he was born of gentle blood ; 
And that there was no neighborhood 
Of kindred for him in that ground , 
So to the Church-yard they are bound, 
Bearing the body on a bier ; 
And psalms they sing — a holy sound 
That liill and vale with sadness hear. 

But Emily hath raised her head, 
And is again disquieted; 
She must behold ! — so many gone. 
Where is the solitary One ? 
And forth from Rylstone-hall stepped she, — 
To seek her Ikother forth she went, 
And tremblingly her course she bent 
Toward Bolton's ruined Priory. 



She comes, and in the vale hath lieard 
The funeral dirge ; — she sees the knot 
Of people, sees them in one spot — 
And darting like a wounded bird 
She reached the grave, and with her breast 
Upon the ground received the rest, — 
The consummation, the whole ruth 
And sorrow of this final truth ! 



CANTO SEVENTH. 

" Powers there are 
That touch each either to the quick— in modes 
Wliich the gross world no sense hath to p« 
ce ve, 
No soul to dream of." 

't'hou Spirit, whose angelic hand 
Was to the harp a strong ccmmand, 
C.dled the submissive strings to waks 
In glory fur this Maiden's ^ake. 
Say, Spirit! whither hath she fled 
To hide her poor afflicted head ? 
What mighty forest in its gloom 
Enfolds her ? — is a rifted tomb 
Within the wilderness her seat? 
Some island which the wild waves beat— ■ 
Is that the Sufferer's last retreat? 
Or some aspiring rock, that shrouds 
Its perilous front in mists and clouds? 
High-climbing rock, low sunless dale. 
Sea, desert, what do these avail r" 
Oh take her anguish and her fears 
Into a deep recess of years 1 

'Tis done, — despoil and desolation 
O'er Rylstone's fair domain have blown ; 
Pools, terraces, and walks are sown 
With weeds ; the bowers are overthrown^ 
Or have given way to slow mutation, 
While, in their ancient habitation 
The Norton name hath been unknown. 
The lordly Mansion of its pride 
Is stripped ; the ravage hath spread wide 
Through park and field, a perishing 
That mocks the gladness of the Spring! 
And, with this silent gloom agreeing, 
Appears a joyless human Being, 
Of aspect such as if the waste 
Were under her dominion placed. 
Upon a primrose bank, her throne 
Of quietness, she sits alone ; 
Among the ruins of a wood, 
ErLwhile a covert bright and green, 
And where full many a brave tree stood, 
I'hat used to spread its boughs, and ling 
With the sweet bird's carolling. 



1 



POEMS OF THE IMAGIAATION. 



351 



Bcliol'l I.er, like a virgin Queen, 

Nei^i„..lin2; in imperial state 

I'hese outward images of tate, 

A nii carrying inward a serene 

And perfect sway, through many a thought 

Of chance and change, that hatli been brought 

To the objection of a holy. 

Though stern and rigorous, melancholy ! 

The like authority, with grace 

Jf awfulness, is in her face, — 

There hath she fixed it ; yet it seems 

To o'ershadow by no native right 

That face, which cannot lose the gleams, 

Lose utterly the tender gleams, 

Of gentleness and meek delight, 

And loving-kindness ever bright : 

Such is her sovereign mien : — her dress 

(A vest with woollen cincture tied, 

A hood of mountain-wool undyed) 

Is homely, — fashioned to express 

A wandering Pilgrim's humbleness. 

And she hoth wandered, long and far, 
Beneath the light of sun and star ; 
Hath roamed in trouble and in grief. 
Driven forward like a vv'ithered leaf, 
Yea like a ship at random blown 
To distant places and unknown. 
Hut now she dares to seek a haven 
Among her native wilds of Craven ; 
Hath seen again her Father's roof, 
And put her fortitude to proof : 
The mighty sorrow hath been borne, 
And she is thoroughly forlorn : 
Her soul doth in itself stand fast, 
Sustained by memory of the past 
And strength of Reason ; held above 
'i'lie infirmities of mortal love ; 
I'ndaunted, lofty, calm, and stable. 
And awfully impenetrable. 

And so — beneath a mouldered tree, 
A self-surviving leafless oak 
I'.v imregarded age from stroke 
01 ravage saved — sate Emily. 
Tiiere did siic rest, with head reclined, 
Herself most like a stately Hower, 
(Sucli have 1 seen) whom chance of birth 
H.ith separated from its kind. 
To live and die in a shady bower, 
Single on the gladsome earth. 

When, with a noise like distant thunder, 
A troop of deer came sweeping by ; 
And. suddenly, beiiold a wonder ! 
l'"()r One, among those rushing deer, 
A MUijle One, in mid career 
Hatli stopped, and fixed her kirge full eye 



Upon the Lady Emily ; 

A Doe most beautiful, clear-white, 

A radiant creature, silver-bright ! 

Thus checked, a little while it stayed ; 
A little thoughtful pause it made ; 
And then advanced with stealth-like pace, 
Drew softly near her, and more near — 
Looked round — but saw no cause for fear ; 
So to her feet the Creature came. 
And laid its head upon her knee. 
And looked into the Lady's face, 
A look of pure benignity, 
And fond unclouded memory. 
It is, thought Emily, the same, 
The very Doe of other years 1 — 
The pleading look the Lady viewed, 
And, by her gushing thought subdued. 
She melted into tears — 
A flood of tears, that flowed apace. 
Upon the happy Creature's face. 

Oh, moment ever blest ! O Pair 
Beloved of Heaven, Heaven's chosen care, 
This was for you a precious greeting ; 
And may it prove a fruitful meeting ! 
Joined are they, and the sylvan Doe 
Can she depart ? can she forego 
The Lady, once her playful peer. 
And now her sainted Mistress dear? 
And will not Emily receive 
Tills lovely chronicler of things 
Long past, delights and sorrowings ? 
Lone Sufferer ! will not she believe 
The promise in that speaking face ; 
And welcome, as a gift of grace, 
Thj saddest thought the Creature brings ? 

That day, the first of a re-union 
Which was to teem with high communion, 
That day of balmy April weather. 
They tarried in the wood together. 
And when, ere fall of evening dew. 
She from her sylvan haunt withdrew, 
The White Doe tracked with faithful pace 
The Lady to her dwelling-place ; 
That nook where, on jxiternal ground, 
A habitation she liad found. 
The Master of whose humble board 
Once owned her Father for his Lord ; 
A hut, by tufted trees defended, 
Where Rylstone brook with Wharf is blended 

When Emily by morning !ight 
Went forth, the Doe stood there in sight. 
I She shrunk : — with one frail shock of psun 
Received and followed bv a prayer, 
Slie =..iw tlie ("reature once again ; 
Shun will she not, siie feels, will bear:— 



352 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



But, wheresoever she looked round, 

All now was trouble-liaunted ground ; 

And therefore now slie deems it good 

Once more this restless neighborhood 

To leave.— Unwooed, yet unforbidden, 

The White Doe followed up the vale, 

Up to another cottage, hidden 

In the deep fork of Amerdale ; 

And there may Emily restore 

Herself, in spots unseen before. 

— Why tell of mossy rock, or tree, 

By lurking Dernbrook's pathless side, 

Haunts of a strengthening amity 

That calmed her, clieeied, and fortified ? 

For she hath ventured now to read 

Of time, and place, and thought, and deed — 

Endless history that lies 

In her silent Follower's eyes ; 

Who with a power like human reason 

Discerns the favorable season, 

Skilletl to approach or to retire, — 

From looks conceiving her desire ; 

From luok, deportment, voice, or mien, 

That vary to the heart within. 

If she too passionately wreathed 

Her arms, or over deeply breathed. 

Walked quick or slowly, every mood 

In its degree was understood ; 

Then well may their accord be true, 

And kindliest intercourse ensue. 

— Oh ! surely 'twas ? gentle rousing 

Wiien she by sudden glimpse espied 

The White I)oe on the mountain browsing. 

Or in the meadow wandered wide ! 

How pleased, when down the Straggler sank 

Beside her, on some sunny bank ! 

How soothed, when in thick bovver enclosed. 

They, like a nested pair, reposed ! 

Fair Vision ! when it crossed the Maid 

Within some rocky cavern laid, 

The dark cave's portal gliding by, 

White as whitest cloud on high 

Floating through the azure sky. 

>— What now is left for pain or fear ? 

That Presence, dearer and more dear. 

While they, side by side, were straying. 

And the shepherd's pipe was playing, 

D'i now a very gladness yield 

A morning to the dewy field, 

And with a deeper peace endued 

The hour of moonlight solitude. 

With her Companion, in such frame 
Of mind, to Rylstone back sh;? came ; 
And, ranging througli the wasted groves. 
Received the memory of old loves, 
Undisturbed and undistrest. 



Into a soul which now was blest 
With a soft spring-day of holy, 
?vlild, and grateful, melancholy : 
In'oI sunless gloom or unenlightened, 
But by tender fancies brightened. 

When the bells of Rylstone played 
Their .Sabbath music—" (!f>0& U6 (1l)iif ! '' 
That was the sound they seemed to speiik, 
Inscriptive legend which I ween 
May on those holy bells be seen. 
That legend and her Grandsire's name ; 
i\\\d oftentimes the Lady meek 
Had in her childliood read the same ; 
Words which she slighted at that day; 
But now, when such sad change was wrought 
And of that lonely name she thought, 
The bells of Rylstone seemed to say, 
While she sate listening in the shade. 
With vocal music, •* (L'Ol) U3 ni)i)C i " 
And all the hiDs were glad to bear 
Their part in this effectual prayer. 

Nor lacked she Reason's firmest power ; 
But with the White Doe at her side 
Up would she climb to Norton Tower, 
And thence look round her far and wide, 
Her fate there measuring : — all is stilled, — 
The weak One hath subdued her heart ; 
Behold the prophecy fulfilled, 
Fulfilled, and she sustains her i>art ! 
P>ut here her Brother's words have failed; 
Here hath a milder doom prevailed ; 
That she, of him and all bereft, 
Hath yet this faitliful Partner left. 
Tills one Assvociate that disproves 
His words, remains for her, and loves. 
If tears are shed, they do not fall 
For loss of hnn— for one, or all ; 
Yet, sometimes, sometimes doth she weep 
Moved gently in her soul's soft sleep ; 
A few tears down her cheek descend 
For this her last and living Friend. 

Bless, tender Hearts, their mutual lot, 
And bless for lx)th this savage spot ; 
Wliich Emily dotii sacred hold 
For reasons dear and manifold — 
Here hath she, here before her sight. 
Close to the summit of this height. 
The grassy rock-encircled Pound 
In which the Creature first was found. 
So beautiful the timid Thrall 
(A sjjotless Youngling white as foam) 
Her youngest Brother brought it home} 
The youngest, then a lusty boy, 
Bore it, or led, to R>lst(ine-hall 
With heart brimful of pride and joy 1 ^ 



^»l 



POEMS OF TFIE IMAGINATION. 



3W 



But most to Bolton's sacred Pile, 
On favoring nights, she loved to go ; 
There ranged through cloister, court, and 

aisle, 
Attended by the soft-paced Doe; 
Nor feared she in the still moonshine 
To look upon Saint Mary's shrine ; 
Nor on the lonely turf that showed 
Where Francis slept in his last abode. 
For that she came ; there oft she sate 
Forlorn, but not disconsolate : 
And, when sho from ;he abyss returned 
Of thought, she neither shrunk nor mourned. 
W.is happy that she lived to greet 
Her mute Companion as it lay 
In love and pity at her feet ; 
How happy in its turn to meet 
The recognition ! the mild glance 
Beamed from that gracious countenance j 
Communication, like the ray 
Of a new morning, to the nature 
And prospects of the inferior Creature ! 

A mortal Song we sing, by dower 
Encouraged of celestial power ; 
Power which the viewless Spirit shed 
By whom we were first visited ; 
Whose voice we heard, whose hand and 

wings 
Swept like a breeze the conscious strings, 
When, left in solitude, erewhile 
We stood before this ruined Pile, 
And, quitting unsubstantial dreams, 
Sang in this Presence kindred themes ; 
Distress and desolation spread 
Through human hearts, and pleasure dead, — 
Dead — but to live ag in on earth, 
A second and yet nobler birth ; 
Dire overthrow, and yet how high 
The re-ascent in sanctity ! 
From fair to fairer ; day by day 
A more divine and loftier way ! 
Even such this blessed Pilgrim trod, 
By sorrow lifted towards her God ; 
Uplifted to the purest sky 
Of undisturbed mortality. 
1 1 pr own thoughts loved she ; and could bend 
A dear look to iier lowly Friend ; 
Tliere stopped ; her thir.=t was satisfied 
With what this innocent spring supplied ; 
Her sanction inwardly she bore, 
And stood apart from human cares : 



Hut to the world returned no more, 
Although with no unwiUmg mind 
Help did she give at need, and joined 
The Wharfdale peasants in their prayer*. 
At length, thus faintly, faintly tied 
To carti), she was set free, and died. 
Thy soul, exalted Emily, 
Maid of the blasted family. 
Rose to the God from whom it came ! 
— In Rylstone Church her mortal frame 
Was buried by her Mother's side. 

Most glorious sunset ! and a ray 
Survives — tiic twilight of this day — 
In that fnir Creature whom the fields 
Support, and whom the forest shields ; 
Who, having filled a holy place, 
Partakes, in her degree, Heaven's grace, 
And bears a memory and a mind 
Raised far above the law of kind ; 
Haunting th pots ' "ith lonely cheer 
Which her .c:.i Mistress once held dear : 
Loves most what Emily loved most — 
The enclosure of this church-yard ground; 
Here wanders like ;i gliding ghost, 
And every sabbath here is found ; 
Comes with the people wlien the bells 
Are heard among the moorland dells. 
Finds entrance through yon arch, where waj 
Lies open on tlie sabbath-day ; 
Here walks amid the mournful waste 
Of prostrate altars, shrines defaced. 
And floors encumbered witli rich sliow 
Of fret-work imagery laid low ; 
Paces softly, or makes halt. 
By fractured cell, or tomb, or vault; 
By plate of monumental brass 
Dim-gleaming among weeds and grass, 
And sculptured Forms of Warriors brave t 
But chiefly by that single grave. 
That one sequestered hillock green, 
The pensive visitant is seen. 
There doth the gentle Creature lie 
With those adversities unmoved; 
Claim spectacle, by earth and sky 
In tlicir benignity approved ! 
And aye, methinks. this hoary Pile, 
Subdued by outrat^e and decay, 
Looks down upon her with a smile, 
A gracious smile, that seems to say — 
" Thou, thou art not a Child of Time, 
Buc Daughter of the Eternal Prirae 1 " 



.554 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION: 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 



IN SERIES. 



PART I. 

fROM THE INTRODUCTION OF CHRISTIANITY INTO BRITAIN, TO THE CONSUMMA- 
TION OF THE I'Al'AL DOMINION. 

" A verse may catcli a wnndering Soul, that flies 
Profouiider Tracts, and by a blest surprise 
Convert delight into a .S.icriticc." 



INTRODUCTION. 

I, WHO accompanied with faithful pace 
Cerulean Duddon from his cloud-fed sprinc;, 
And loved with spirit ruled by his to sing 
(){ mountain-quiet and boon nature's grace ; 
1, who essayed the nobler Stream to trace 
Of Liberty, and smote the plausivc striii'^ 
Till the checked torrent, proudly triumph- 
ing, 
Won for herself a lasting resting-place ; 
Now seek upon the heights of Time the 

source 
of a Holy River, on whose banks are 

found 
Sweet pastoral flowers, and laurels that 

have crowned 
Full oft the unworthy brow of lawless 

force ; 
And, for delight of him who tracks its 

covirse. 
Immortal amaranth and palms abound. 



CONJECTi:res. 

If there be prophets on whose spirits rest 
Past things, revealed like future, they can 

tell 
What Powers, presiding o'er the sacred 

well 
Of Christian Faith, this savage Island 

blessed 
With its first bounty. Wandering through 

the west, 
CHd holy Paul a while in Britain flwH-ll, 
And call the Fountain forth by miracle, 



And with dread signs the nascent Stream 

invest ? 
Or He, whose bonds dropped off, whose 

prison doors 
Flew open, by an Angel's voice unbarred ? 
Or some of humbler name, to these wild. 

shores 
Storm-driven ; who, having seen the cup of 

woe 
Pass from their Master, sojourned here to 

guard 
The precious Current t-hey had taught to 

flow? 



TREPIDATION OF THE DRUIDS. 

Screams round the Arch-druid's brow the 

sea-mew * — white 
As ]\Ienai's foam ; and toward the mystic 

ring 
Where Augurs stand, the Future question- 
ing. 
Slowly the cormorant aims her heavy flight, 
Portending ruin to each baleful rite 
'J'hat, in the lapse of ages, hath crept o'er 
Diluvian truths, and patriarchal lore. 
Haughty the Bard: can these meek doc 

trines blight 
His tran^p^rts ? wither his heroic strains ? 
But all shall be fulfilled ;— the Julian speai 
A way first opened ; and, with Roman 
chains, 



* This watei-fnwi was, among the Druids, an 
emblem of those traditions connected with the 
deluge that made an important part of their 
mysteries. The Cormorant was a bird of b«J 
omen. 



POEMS OF THE [MAGr^'ATrON-. 



355 



The tidings come of Jesus crucified ; 
They come — they spread— tlie wcuk, the 

sufferinc;, hear ; 
Receive the faith, and m the hope abide. 



DRUIDICAL EXCOMMUNICATION. 

Mercy and Love have met thee on thy 

road, 
Thou wretched Outcast, from the gift of 

fire 
And food cut off by sacerdotal ire, 
From every sympathy that Man bestowed! 
Yet shall it claim our reverence, th^t to 

God, 
Ancient of days ! that to the eternal Sire, 
These jealous Ministers of law aspire. 
As to the one sole fount whence wisdom 

flowed. 
Justice, and order. Tremblingly escaped 
As if with prescience of the comini; storm, 
That intimation when the stars were 

shaped ; 
And still, 'mid yon thick woods, the primal 

truth 
Glimmers through many a superstitious 

form 
That fills the Soul with unavailing ruth. 



uncertainty. 

Darkness surrounds us; seeking, we are 

lost 
On Snowdon's wilds, amid Bngantian coves, 
Or where the solitary shepherd roves 
Along the plain of Sarum, by the ghost 
Of Time and shadows of Tradition, crost ; 
And where the boatman of the Western 

Isles 
Slackens his course — to mark those holy 

piles 
Which yet survive on bleak lona's const. 
Nor these, nor monuments of eldest name, 
Nor Taliesin's unforgotten lays, 
Nor characters of Greek or Roman fame, 
To an unquestionable Source have led ; 
Enough- -if eyes, that sought the fountain- 
head 
In vain, upon the growing Rili may gaze 



persecution. 

Lament ! for Diocletian's fiery sword 
Works busy as the hghtning , but instinct 



With malice ne'er to deadhest weapon 

linked, 
Whicli (iod's ethereal store-houses afford 
Against the Followers of the incarnate Lord 
It rages ;--some are smitten in the held — 
Some pierced to the heart through the in 

effectual shield 
Of sacred home -—with pomp are otlicrs 

gored 
And dreadful respite. Thus was Alb.in 

tried, 
England's first Martyr, whom no threats 

could shake ; 
Self-offered victim, for his friend he died, 
And for the faith ; nor shall his name foi 

sake 
That Hill, whose flowery platform seems to 

rise 
By Nature decked for holiest sacrifice. 



RECOVERY. 

As, when a storm hath ceased, the birds re 

gain 
Their cheerfulness, and busilv rctrim 
Their nests, or chant a gratulating hymn 
To the blue ether and bespangled plam ; 
Even so, in many a reconstructed fane, 
Have the survivors of this Storm renev/cd 
Their holy rites with vocal gratitude ; 
And solemn ceremonials they ordain 
Tiy celebrate their great deliverance : 
Most feelingly instructed 'mid their fear — 
That persecution, blind with rage extreme. 
May not the less, through Heaven's mild 

countenance, 
Even in her own despite, both fcod and 

cheer ; 
For all things are less dreadful thin they 

seem. 

VIII. 

TEMPTATIONS FROM ROMAN REFINB 
MENTS. 

Watch, and be firm! for soul subduing 

vice, 
Heart-killing luxury, on yotir steps await. 
Fair houses, baths, and banqu. is d.-hcati^, 
And temples flasliing, bright as polar ;co, 
Their radiance through the woods— may yet 

suffice 
To sap your hardy virtue, and abate 
Your love of him upon whose forehead sate 
The crown of thorns ; whose life-blood 

flowed, the price 
Of Y"iir redempuon. Shun the insiduo\» 

arts 



35^ 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



That Romp piovides, Icbs clic;i'linc; from her 

ijown 
riiaii from her wily praise, licr peaceful 

gown, 
Lan'^iia2;e, andlctters ; — these, though fond 

ly viewed 
A-. Imniaiii/.iii'^ .graces, arc but ]->arts 
K\y\ instruincnts of deadliest servitude! 

IX. 

nsSKXSION'S. 

i.i .r iieresics sliould strike (if truth be 
scanr.ed 

I'lL'suinpluousIy) their roots both wide and 
deep, 

J - iiatnral as dreams to feverish sleep. 

L'l ' Discord at tlie altar dares to stand 

Up'iftin'j; toward high Heaven her fiery 
brand, 

A ciierished Priestess of the new baptized ! 

But chastisement shall follow peace de- 
spised. 

Tlie Pictish cloud darkens the enervate land 

Ijy Kome abandoned; vain are suppliant 
cries, 

And prayers that would undo her forced 
farewell ; 

For she returns not. — Awed by her own 
knell, 

She casts the Rritons upon strange Allies, 

Soon lo become more dreaded enemies 

Than heartless misery called them to repel. 

X. 

STRUGGLE OK THE BRITONS AG.MNST THE 
B.ARH.ARIANS. 

Rise !— they /'rt'-'^ risen : of brave Aneurin 

ask 
How they have scourged old foes, perfidious 

friends 
The Spirit of Caj-actacus descends 
Upon the Patriots, animates their task , — 
.Amazement runs before the towering casque 
'Jf Arthur, bearing through the stormy field 
r'le virgin ^culptured on his Christian 

shield - 
Stretclied in the sunny light of victory bask 
I"'ic Host that followed Urien as bestrode 
(j':r heaps of slain; — from Cambrian wood 

and moss 
I'mids descend, auxihars of the Cross ; 
Bards, nursed on blue Plmlimmon's still 

abode. 
Rush on the fight, to harps preferring 

swords. 
And everlasting deeds to burning words ! 



SAXON CONQUEST 

Nor wants the cause the panic-striking aid 

Ot halleluiahs tos- liom hil, to hill — 

l'"or mutant victory But Heaven's high 

wiil 
Permits a second and a darker shade 
Of Pagan night Afflicted and dismayed, 
The Relics of the sword flee to llic mounr 

tains 
O wretched Land ! whose tears Iiave (lowed 

like fountains , 
Whose arts and hor.ois in the dust are laid 
By men yet scarcely conscious of a rare 
P'or other monuments than those of Karth ; 
Who, as the fields and woods have given 

them birth, 
Will build their sav.Tje fortunes only there ; 
Content, if foss, and harrow, and the girth 
Of long-drawn rampart, witness what they 

were. 

XII. 
MONASTERY OF OLD RANGOR. 

The oppression of the tumult — wrath and 

scorn — 
The irtb Illation - ■ and the gleanuno; blades— 
Such IS tlie impetuous spirit th;it pervades 
'l"he song of Tahesin , — Ours shall mourn 
'^\\^ unarmed Wo-^i who by their prayers 

would turn 
The sword from Bangor's walls, and guard 

the store 
Of Aboriginal and Roman lore, 
And Christian monuments, that now must 

burn 
To senseless ashes Mark I how all things 

swerve 
From their known course, or vanish like a 

dream ; 
Another language spreads from coast to 

coast ; 
Only perchance some melancholy Stream 
And some indignant Hills old names pre- 
serve, 
When laws, and creeds, and people all are 

lost! 

XIII. 
CASUAL INCITEMENT. 

A BRIGHT-HAIRED company Ot youthful 

slaves. 
Beautiful strangers, stand within the pale 
Of a sad market, ranged for public sale, 



POEMS OF THE TMACINATIOl^. 



3S) 



Where Tiber's stream the immortal City 

laves : 
Angli by name ; and not an Angel waves 
His wing who could seem lovelier to man's 

eye 
Than they appear to holy Gregory ; 
Who, having learnt that name, salvation 

craves 
For Them, and for their Land. The 

earnest Sire, 
His questions urging, feels, in slender ties 
Of chiming sound, commanding syiupatliies ; 
De-ikians — he would save them from God's 

Ire ; 
Subjects of Saxon >Ella — they shall sing 
Glad HALLE-lujahs to the Eternal King ! 



GLAD TIDINGS. 

Forever hallowed be this morning fair, 
Blest be tlie unconscious shore on wliich ye 

tread, 
And biest tlie silver Cross, which ye, instead 
Of martial banner, in procession bear ; 
The Cross preceding Him who floats in 

air, 
The pictured Saviour ! — By Augustin led. 
They come— and onward travel without 

dread, 
Chanting in barbarous c.irs a tuneful prayer — 
Sung for themselves, and those whom tliey 

would free ! 
Rich conquest waits them : — Tlie tempes- 
tuous sea 
Of Ignorance, that ran so rough and high 
And heeded not the voice of clashing 

swords. 
These good men humble by a few bare 

words. 
And calm with the fear of God's divinity. 



PA u LIN us. 

But, to remote Northumbria's royal Hall, 
Where thoughtful Edwin, tutored in the 

school 
Of v.orrow. still maintains a heathen rule. 
Who comes with functions apostolical ? 
Mark him, of shoulders curved, and stature 

tall, 
Black hair, and vivid eye, and meagre cheek, 
His prominent feature like an eagle's beak ; 
A Man whose aspect doth at once appal 
And strike with reverence. The Monarch 

itans 



Toward the pure truths this Delegate pro- 
pounds, 
Repeatedly his own deep mind he sounds 
With careful hesitation,— then convenes 
A synod of his Councillors : — give ear. 
And wliat a pensive Sage doth utter, hear 1 



PERSUASION. 

" Man's life is like a Sparrow, mighty King \ 
That — while at banquet with your Chiefs 

you sit 
Housed near a blazing fire — is seen to flit 
Safe from the wintry tempest. Fluttering, 
Here did it enter ; there, on hasty wing, 
Flies out, .nnd passes on from cold to cold ; 
But whence it came we know not, nor be- 
hold 
Whither it goes. Even such, that transient 

Thing, 
The human Soul ; not utterly ui*;nown 
While in the Body lodged, her warm abode; 
But from what world She came, what woa 

or weal 
( )n her departure waits, no tongue hath 

shown ; 
This mystery if the Stranger can reveal, ' 
His be a welcome cordially bestowed I" 

XVII. 
CONVERSION. 

Prompt transformation works the novel 

Lore ; 
The Council closed, the Priest in full career 
Rides forth, an armed man, and hurls a 

spear 
To desecrate the Fane which heretofore 
He served in folly. Woden falls, and Thor 
Is overturned ; the m;;ce, in battle heaved 
(So might they dream) til! victory w.is 

achieved, 
Drojis, and the God himself is seen no 

more. 
Temple and Altar sink, to hide their shame 
Amid oblivious weeds. " O come to me, 
Yc heavy litden ' " such the inviting voice 
Heard near fresh streams ; and thousands, 

who rejoice 
In the new Rite — the pledge of sanctity, 
Shall, by regenerate life, tiie promise cl^iim. 

XVIII. 
APOLOGY. 

Nor scorn the aid which Fancy oft dotfc 

lend 
The Soul's eternal iiiten sts to promote 



35^ 



POEMS OF THE TMAGINATION. 



Death, darkness, danger, are our natural 

lot; 
And evil Spirits 7nay our walk attend 
For aught the wisest know or comprehend ; 
Then be good Spirits free to breathe a note 
Of elevation ; let their odors float 
Around tliese Converts ; and their glories 

blend, 
Thj midnight stars outshining, or the blaze 
Of the noon-day. Nor doubt that golden 

cords 
Of good works, mingling with the visions, 

raise 
Tlie Soul to purer worlds : and zvJio the 

line 
Shall draw, the limits of the pov^rer define, 
That even imperfect faith to man affords ? 



PRIMITIVE SAXON CLERGY. 

How beautiful your presence, how benign, 
Servants of God 1 who not a thought will 

share 
With the vain world ; who, outwardly, as 

bare 
As winter trees, yield no fallacious sign 
I'hat the firm soul is clothed with fruit 

divine ! 
Tiuch Priest, when service worthy of his care 
Has called him forth to breathe the common 

air. 
Might seem a saintly Image frtmi its shrine 
Descended : — happy are the eyes that meet 
Tiie Apparition ; evil thoughts are stayed 
At his approach, and low-bowed necks en- 
treat 
y\ b;Miediction from his voice or hand ; 
Whence grace, through which the heart can 

understand. 
And vows, that bind the will, in silence 

made. 



OTHER INFLUENCES. 

All, when the Body, round which in love we 

dung. 
Is ch'Iled by death, does mutual service 

fail ? 
Is tender pity then of no avail ? 
Are intercessions of the fervent tongue 
A waste of hope ?— l-'rom this sad source 

have sprung 
Rites that console the Spirit, under grief 
Which ill can brook more rational relief . 
Hence, prayers are shaped amiss, and dirges 

sung 



For Souls whose doom is fixed ! The waj 

is smooth 
For Power that travels with the human 

heart : 
Confession ministers the pang to soothe 
In him who at the ghost of guilt dotii start 
Ye holy Men, so earnest in your care, 
Of your own miglity instruments beware ! 



SECLUSION. 

Lance, shield, and sword relinquished- -at 

his side 
A bead-ioll, in his hand a clasped book. 
Or staff more harmless than a shepherd's 

crook. 
The war-worn Chieftain quits the world— to 

hide 
His thin autumnal locks where Monk? 

abide 
In cloistered privacy. But not to dwell 
In soft repose he comes. Withm his cell. 
Round the decaying trunk of human pride, 
At morn, and e/e, and midnight's silent 

hour, 
Do penitential cogitations cling ; 
Like ivy, round some ancient elm, they 

twine 
In grisly folds and strictures serpentine; 
Yet, while they strangle, a fair growth they 

bring, 
For recompense — their own perennial bower. 

XXII. 
CONTINUED. 

Methinks that to some vacant hermitage 
My feet would rather tuin — to some dry 

nook 
Scooped out of living rock, and near a brook 
Hurled down a mountain-cove from stage to 

stage. 
Yet tempering, for my sight, its bustling 

rage 
In the soft heaven of a translucent pool , 
Thence creeping under sylvan arches cool 
Fit haunt of shapes whose glorious equi 

page 
Would elevate my dreams. A beechen 

bowl, 
A maple dish, my furniture should be ; 
Crisp, yellow leaves my bed ; the hooting 

owl 
My night-watch ? nor should e'er the crested 

fowl 
From thorp or vill his matins sound lo: 

me, 
Tired of the world and all its industry. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION 



3S9 



But what if One, through grove or flowery 

mead, 
Indulging thus at will the creeping feet 
Of a voluptuous indolence, should meet 
Thy hovering Shade, O venerable Bcde ! 
The saint, the scholar, from a circle freed 
Of toil stupendous, in a hallowed seat 
Of learning, where thou heard'bt the billows 

beat 
On a wild coast, rough monitors to feed 
Perpetual industry Sublime Recluse ! 
The recreant soul, that dares to shun the 

debt 
Imposed on human kind, must first forget 
Thy diligence, thy unrelaxing use 
Of a long life , and, m the hour of death, 
The last dear service of thy passing 

breath ! * 



SAXON MONASTERIES, AND LIGHTS AND 
SHADES OF THE RELIGION. 

By such examples moved to unbought 

pains, 
The people work like congregated bees 
Eager to build the quiet Fortresses 
Where Piety, as they believe, obtains 
From Heaven a general blessings timely 

rains 
Or needful sunshine , prosperous enterprise, 
Justice and peace -. — bold faith ! yet also 

* rise 
The sacred Structures for less doubtful 

gains. 
The Sensual think with reverence of the 

palms 
Which the chaste X'olarics seek, beyond the 

grave ; 
If penance be redeemable, thence alms 
Flow to the p(H)r, nnd freedom to the slave; 
And if full oft tlie Sanctuary save 
Lives black with guilt, ferocity it calms. 

XXV. 
MISSIONS AND TRAVELS. 

Not sedentary all : there are who roam 
To scatter seeds of life on barbarous 

shores 
Or quit with zealous step their knee-worn 

floors 



* He expired dictating the last words of a 
tnmslatiou of St. John's Gospel. 



To seek the general mart of Chiistcndom ; 
Whence they, hke riclily-laden merchants, 

come 
To their bdovcd cells : — or shall we say 
That, hke the Red-cross Knight, they urge 

their way, 
To lead in memorable triumph home 
Truth, their immortal Una? Babylon, 
Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, 
Nor leaves her Speech one word to aid th« 

sigh 
That would lament her ; — Memphis, Tyre. 

are gone 
With all their Arts,— but classic lore glides 

on 
By these Religious saved for all posterity. 



ALFRED. 

Behold a pupil of the monkish gown, 
The pious Alfred, King to Justice dear! 
Lord of the harp and liberating spear , 
Mirror of Princes! Indigent Renown 
Might range tiie starry ether for a crown 
Equal to his deserts, who, like the year, 
I'ours forth his bounty, like the day doth 

cheer. 
And awes like night with mercy tempered 

frown. 
Ease from this noble miser of his time 
No moment steals ; pain narrows not his 

cares. 
Though small his kingdom as a spark or 

gem, 
Of Alfred boasts remote Jerusalem, 
And Christian India, through her wide- 
spread clime, 
In sacred converse gifts with Alfred shares 

XXVII. 
HIS DESCENDANTS 

When thy great soul was freed from mor- 
tal chains, 

narlmg of England ! many a bitter shower 

Fell on thy tomb, but emulative power 

IHowed in thy line through undegenerate 
veins. 

The Race of Alfred covet glorious pains 

When dangers threaten, dangers e\er new ! 

Black tempests bursting, blacker still in 
view I 

Rut manly sovereignty its hold retains ; 

The root sincere, the branches bold to 
strive 

With the fierce tempests, while, within th« 
round 



36o 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Of their protection, gentle virtues thrive ; 
As oft, 'mid some green plot of open 

ground. 
Wide as tlie oak extends its dewy gloom, 
The fostered hyacinths spread their purple 

bloom. 

XXVIII 
INFLUENCE ABU.SED. 

Urged by Ambition, who with subtlest 

skill 
Chan ',cs her means, the Enthusiast as a 

dupe 
Shall soar, and a:s a hypocrite can stoop, 
And turn tiic instruments :)f good to ill. 
Moulding tiic credulous people to his will. 
Such DuNSTAN — from its Benedictine 

COO]:) 
Issues the master Mind, at whose fell 

swoop 
The chaste affections tremble to fulfil 
Tlieir purposes. )5chold, j re-signiflcd, 
The Might ot spiritual sway! his thoughts, 

his dreams, 
Do i:i the suj-icrnatural world abide: 
So vaunt a throng of Followers, filled with 

pride 
jn what they see of virtues pushed to ex- 
tremes, 
And sorceries of talent misapplied. 

XXIX. 
DANISH CONQUESTS. 

Wok to the Crown that doth the Cowl 

obey ! 
Dissension, checking arms that would re- 
strain 
The incessant Rovers of tlic northern main, 
1 lelps to restore and sjii cad a Pagan '^way . 
But Gospel-truth is j^wtent to allay 
Fierceness and rage ; and soon the cruel 

Dane 
Feels, through the influence of her gentle 

reign. 
Ills native superstitions melt away 
Thus, often, when the thick gloom the east 

o'ershrouds, 
Tlie full-orbed Moon, slow-climbing, doth 

appear 
Silently to consume the heavy clouds , 
llo-iv no one can resolve ; but every eye 
Around her sees, while air is hushed, a 

cl ar 
And widening circuit of ethereal sky. 



CANUTE. 

A PLEASANT music floats along the Mere, 
From Monks m Fly chanting service higl«, 
While-as Canute, tlic King is rowing bv : 
"My Oarsmen," cjuoth the mighty King, 

" draw near. 
That we the sweet song of the Monks may 

b.ear! " 
lie listens (all past conquests and all 

schemes 
Of future vanishing like eirij^ty dreams) 
Heart-touched, and haply not without a 

tear. 
The Royal Minstrel, ere the choir is still, 
Willie his free Barge skims the smooth 

flood along. 
Gives to that raj-ture an accordant Rhyme. 
O suffering Earth ! be thankful ; sternest 

clime 
And rudest age are subject to the thrill 
Of heaven-descended Piety and Song. 

XXXI, 

THE NORMAN CONQUEST, 

The woman-hearted ConfessK)r prepares 

The evanescence of the Saxon line. 

Hark! 'tis the tolling Curfew !— the stars 

shine ; 
But of the lights that cherish household 

cares 
And festive gladness, burns not one that 

dares « 

To twinkle after that dull stroke of thine, 
Emblem and instrument, from Thames to 

Tvne, 
Of force that daunts, and cunning that cii- 

snares ! 
Vet as the terrors of tlic lordly bell, 
J That ciuench, f om hut to palace, lamps and 

fires. 
Touch not the tapers of the sacred quires ; 
F,vcn so a thraldom, studious to expel 
Old laws, and ancient customs to derange. 
To Creed or Ritual brings no fatal change. 

XXXII. 

Coldly wo spake. The Saxons over- 
powered 

By wron;; triumphant through its own ex- 
cess. 

From fields laid waste, from house and 
home devoured 

By flames, luck up to heaven and cravi re- 
dress 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATIOlSr. 



361 



From rif)d's eternal justice. Pitiless 
Thoui>li men be, there are angels that can 

feel 
For wounds that death alone has power to 

ileal, 
For penitent suilt, and innocent distress. 
And has a Champion risen in arms to try 
His Country's virtue, fought, and breathes 

no more ; 
lUm in their iiearts the people canonize ; 
And far above the mine's most precious ore 
Tlie least small pittance of bare mould they 

prize 
Scooped from the sacred earth where his 

dear relics lie. 

XXXIII. 
THE COUNCIL OF CLERMONT. 

"And shall," the pontiff asks, " profane- 

ness tiow 
From Nazareth — source of Christian piety, 
From Jiethlehem, from the Mounts of 

Afjony 
And glorified Ascension ? Warriors, go, 
Witli prayers and blessings we your path 

will sow ; 
Like Moses hold our hands erect, till ye 
Have chased far off by righteous victory 
These sons of Amalek, or laid them 

low! " — 
"GoDWiLLETH IT " the whole assembly 

cry; 
Shout which the enraptured multitude as- 
tounds ! 
The Council-roof and Clermont's towers 

reply ;— 
** God willeth it," from hill to hill rebounds. 
And, in awe-stricken Countries far and 

nigh, 
Through " Nature's hollow arch " that voice 

resounds.* 

XXXIV. 
CRUSADES. 

The turbaned Race are poured in thicken- 
ing swarms 

Along the west ; though driven from Aqui- 
tame, 

The Crescent glitters on the towers of 
Spain ; 

And soft Italia feels renewed alarms ; 

'I'he cimeter, that yields not to the charms 

* The decision of this Council was believed 
to be instantly knowD in remote parts of Eu- 
rope 



Of ease, the narrow Bosphorus will disdain; 
Nor long (that crossed) would Grecian hills 

detain 
Their tents, and check the current of thui 

arms. 
Then blame not those who, by the migltit si 

lever 
Know to the moral world. Imagination, 
Upheave, so seems it, from her natural 

station 
All Christendom : — they sweep along (was 

never 
So huge a host !) — to tear from the Unbe- 
liever 
The precious Tomb, their haven of salva 

tion. 

XXXV. 
RICHARD I. 

Redoubted King, of courage leonine, 
1 mark thee, Richard I urgent to equip 
Thy warlike person with the staff and scrip ; 
I watch thee sailing o'er the midland brine ; 
In conquered Cyprus see thy Bride declme 
Her blushing cheek, love-vows ujion her lip. 
And see love-emblems streaming from tliy 

ship. 
As thence she holds her way to Palestine. 
My Song, a fearless homager, would attend 
Thy thundering battle-axe as it cleaves the 

press 
Of war, but duly summons her away 
To tell — how, finding in the rash distress 
Of those Enthusiasts, a subservient friend, 
To giddier heights hath clomb the I'apal 

sway. 



AN INTERDICT. 

Realms quake by turns ; proud Arbilrcss 

of grace, 
The Church, by mandate shadowing fort> 

the power 
She arrogates o'er heaven's eternal door. 
Closes the gates of every sitcred place. 
Straight from the sun and tainted air's cm 

brace 
All sacred things are covered: cheerfu. 

morn 
Grows sad as night— no seemly garb is 

worn. 
Nor is a face allowed to meet a face 
With naturnl smiles of greeting. Bells art 

dumb ; 
Ditches arc graves — funeral rites denied ; 



j62 



POEMS OF THE IMAC/JVAJJON. 



And in the church-yard he must take his 

bride 
Who dares be wedded ! Fancies thickly 

come 
Into the pensive heart ill fortified, 
And comfortless despairs the soiil benumb. 

XXXVII. 

PAPAL ABUSES. 

As with the Stream our voyac;e we pursue, 
The gross materials of this world present 
A marvellous study of wild accident ; 
Uncouth proximities of old and new ; 
And bold transfii^urations, more untrue 
(As might be deemed) to disciplined intent 
Than aught the sky's fantastic element, 
When most fantastic, offers to the view. 
Saw we not Henry scourged at Becket's 

shrine ? 
Lo! John self-stripped of his insignia: — 

crown. 
Sceptre and mantle, sword and nng, laid 

down 
At a proud Legate's feet ! The spears that 

line 
Baronial halls the opprobrious insult feel ; 
And angry Ocean roars a vain appeal. 

XXXVIII. 
SCENE IN VENICE. 

Black Demons hovering o'er his mitred 

head, 
To Caesar's Successor the- Pontiff spake : 
" Ere 1 absolve thee, stoop ! that on thy 

neck 
Levelled with earth this foot of mine may 

tread.'" 
Then he, who to the altar had been led, 
lie, whose strong arm the Orient could not 

check. 
He, who had held the Soldan at 1 is !:)eck. 
Stooped, of all gl,,iv disinherited, 
And even the common dignity of man I — 
Air.azement strikes the crowd ; while many 

turn 
Their eyes awav in sorrow, others burn 
With scorn, invoking a vindictive ban 
From outraged Nature ; but the sense of 

most 
In abject sympathy with power is lost. 

XXXIX. 
PAPAL DOMINION. 

Unless to Peter's Chair the viewless wind 
Must come and ask permission when to 
blow, 



What future empire would it have? for 

now 
A ghostly Domination, unronfired 
As that by dreaming IJards to Love as- 
signed. 
Sits there in sober truth — to raise the low, 
Perplex the wise, the strong to overthrow ; 
'1 hrough earth and heaven to bind and to 

unbind ! — 
Resist — the thunder quails thee ! — crouch — 

rebuff 
Shall be thy recompense ! from land to land 
The ancient thrones of Christendom are 

stuff 
For occupation of a magic wand, 
.-Xnd 'tis the Pope that wields it: — v.hether 

rough 
Or smooth his front, our world is in his 

hand ! 



PART 11. 

TO THE CLOSE OF THE TROUBLES IN 
THE KEIGN OF CHARLES I. 



How soon — alas ! did Man. created pure — 
liy Angels guarded, deviate from tlie line 
Prescribed to du : — woeful forfeiture 
He made by wilful breach of law divine. 
With like perverseness did the Church ab- 
jure 
Obedience to her Lord, and haste to twine, 
'Mid Hcaven-boin f.owers that shall for aye 

endure. 
Weeds on whose front the world had llxed 

her sign. 
O Man,— if with thy trials thus it fares, 
If good can smooth the way to evil choice, 
From all rash censure be the mind kept 

free ; 
He only judges right who weighs, coniparrs, 
And, in the sternest sentence which his voice 
Pronounces, ne'er abandons Char'ty. 



From false assumption rose, and fondly 

hail'd 
By suiierstition, spread the Papal power ; 
Yet do not deem the Autocracy prevail'd 
Thus only, even in error's darkest hour. 
She daunts, forth-thundering fr( ni her 

spiritual tower 
Brute rnjMue, or with gentle lure sht; tames 
Justice and Peace through Her uphold tiieii 

claims \ 



POEMS OF THE IMACINATIOM. 



363 



And Cnastity finds many a sheltering 

bower. 
Realm (here is none that if controll'd or 

s.vay'd 
By hor commands partakes not, in det^ree, 
Or good, o'er manners, arts, and arms, 

diffused : 
Ye-i, to thy domination, Roman See, 
Tno' miserably, oft monstiously. abused 
By blind ambitio'^, lie this tribute paid. 



CISTERTIAN MONASTERY. 

"Here Man more purely lives, less oft 

doth fall, 
More promptly rises, xvalks with stricter 

heed, 
More safely rests, dies happier, is freed 
Earlier from cleansing fires, and gains 

withal 
A brighter crown.''* — On yon Cistertian 

wall 
That confident assurance may be read ; 
And, to like shelter, from the world have 

fled 
Increasing multitudes. The potent call 
Doubtless shall cheat full oft the heart's 

desires ; 
Yet, while the rugged Age on pliant knee 
Vows to rapt Fancy humble fealty, 
A gentler life spreads round the holy spires; 
Where'er thev rise, the sylvan waste retires. 
And aery harvests crown the fertile lea. 



Deplorable his lot who tills the ground, 
His whole life long tills it, with heartless 

toil 
Of villain-service, passing with the soil 
To each new Master, like a steer or hound, 
Of like a rooted tree, or stone e.irth-bound ; 
But mark how gladly, through their own 

domains. 
The Monks relax or break these iron chains ; 
While Mercy, uttering, through their voice, 

a sound 
Exhoed in Heaven, cries out, " Ye Chiefs, 

abate 
These legalized oppressions ! Man— whose 

name 
And nature God disdained not ; Man — whose 

soul 
Christ died for — cannot forfeit hie high 

claim 
To live and move exempt from all control 
Which fellow-feeling doth not mitigate I '' 



MONKS AND SCHOOLMEN. 

Record we too, with just and faithful pen, 
That many hooded Cenobites there are, 
Who in their private cells have yet a care 
(3f public quiet ; unambitious Men, 
Counsellors for the world, of pievcing ken ; 
Wliose fervent exhortations lr(<ni afar 
Move Princes to their duty, peace or war ; 
And oft-times in the most forbidding den 
Of solitude, with love of science strong, 
How patiently the yoke of thought thty 

bear. 
How subtly glide its finest threads along ! 
Spirits that crowd tbe intellectual sphere 
Witli mazy boundaries, as the astronomer 
With orb and cycle girds the starry throng. 



OTHER BENEPiITS, 

And, not in vain embodied to the sight. 
Religion finds even in the stern retreat 
Of feudal sway her own appropriate seat ; 
From the collegiate pomps on '.Vindsor's 

height 
Down to the humbler altar, which the 

Knight 
And his Retainers of the embattled hall 
Seek in domestic oratory small. 
For prayer m stillness, or the chanted rite ; 
Then chiefly dear, when foes are planted 

round. 
Who teach the mtrepid guardians of the 

place — 
Hourly exposed to death, with famine worn. 
And suffering under many a perilous 

wound — 
How sad would be their durance, if forlorn 
Of offices dispensing heavenly grace ! 

VII 

CONTINUED. 

And what melodious sounds at times pre- 
vail ! 
And, ever and anon, how bright a gleam 
Pours on the surface of the turbid Stream ! 
What heartfel: fragrance mingles with the 

gale 
That swells the bosom of our passing sail ! 
For where, but on this River's margin, blow 
Those flowers of chivalry, to bind the brow 
Of hardihood with wreaths that shall not 

fail ?— 
Fair Court ot Edward! wonder of th» 
world I 



5^4 



Poems of the imagination. 



1 see a matchless blazonry unfurled 
Of wisdom, magnanimity, and love ; 
And meekness tempering honorable pride ; 
The lamb is couching by the lion's side, 
And near the flame-eyed eagle sits the dove. 



CRUSADERS. 

Furl we the sails, and pass with tarayoars 
Through these bright regions, casting many 

a glance 
Upon the dream-like issues — the romance 
Ot many-colored life that Fortune pours 
Round the Crusaders, till on distant shores 
'j'heir labors end ; or they return to lie, 
The vow performed, in cross-legged effigy, 
l)c;voutly stretched upon their chancel tioors. 
Am I deceived? Or is their requiem 

chanted 
P.y voices never mute when Heaven unties 
licr inmost, softest, tcndcrest harmonies ; 
Requiem wliicli Earth takes up with voice 

undaunted, 
When she would tell how Brave, and Good, 

and Wise, 
For their high guerdon not in vain have 

panted ! 

IX. 

As faith thus sanctified the warrior's crest 
While from the I'apal Unity there came. 
What feebler means had fail'd to give, one 

aim , 

Diffused thro' all the regions of the West ; 
So does her Unity its power attest 
P.y works of Art, tliat shed, on the outward 

frame 
Of worship, glory and grace, which who 

shall blame 
That ever looked to heaven for final rest ? 
Hail countless Temples! that so well befit 
Your ministry ; that, as ye rise and take 
Form, spirit, and character, from holy writ, 
Give to devotion, wheresoe'er awake, 
Pinions of high and higher sweep, and 

make 
The unconverted soul with awe submit. 



Where long and deeply hath been fixed the 

root 
In the blest soil of gospel truth, the Tree, 
( Bli'dited or scatlied tho' many branches be, 
Put forth to wither, many a liopeful shoot) 
Can never cease to bear celestial fruit. 



Witness the Church that oft-times, with 

effect 
Dear to the saints, strives earnestly to eject 
Her bane, her vital energies recruit. 
Lamentmg, do not hopelessly repine 
When such good work is doomed to be ua 

done, 
The conquests lost that were so hardly won 
All promises vouchsafed by Hcavjn will 

shine 
In liglit confirmed while years their coursv 

shall run. 
Confirmed alike in progress and decline. 



TRANSUrSTANTIATION. 

Enough ! for see, with dim association 

The tapers burn ; the odorous incense 
feeds 

A greedy flame; the pompous mass pro- 
ceeds ; 

The Priest bestows the appointed consecra- 
tion ; 

And, while the Host is raised, its elevation 

An awe and supernatural horror breeds ; 

And all the people bow their heads, like 
leeds 

To a soft breeze, in lowly adoration. 

This Valdo brooks not. On the banks of 
Rhone 

He tau'^jht, till persecution chased him 
thenc^. 

To adore tlie Invisible, and Him alone. 

Nor are his followers loth to seek defence, 

'Mid woods and wilds, on Nature's craggy 
throne. 

From rites that trample upon soul and 
sense. 

XII. 
THE VAUDOIS. 

But whence came Lhey who for the Saviour 

Lord 
Have 1 ;ng borne witness as the Scriptures 

teacli?— 
Ages ere Valdo raised his voice to preach 
In Gallic ears the unadulterate Word, 
Their fugitive Progenitors explored 
Subalpine vales, in quest of safe retreats 
Where that pure Church survives, tho;.gh 

summer heats 
Open a passage to tlie Romish sword, 
Far as it dares to follow. Herbs self-sown, 
And fruitage gathered from the chestnut 

wood, 
Nourish the sufferers then ; and mists, that 

brood 



POEMS OF THE IMAGlNATIOt^. 



36s 



O'er chasms with new-fallen obstacles be- 

strown, 
Protect them ; and the eternal snow that 

daunts 
Aliens, is God's good winter for thtir haunts. 
XIII. 

Praised be the Rivers, from their moun- 
tain springs 
Shouting to Freedom, " Plant thy banners 

here ! " 
To harassed Piety, " Dismiss thy fear, 
And in our caverns smooth thy ruAled 

wings ! " 
Nor b^ unthanked their final lingerings — 
Silent, but not to high-souled Passion's 

ear — 
'Mid reedy fens wide-spread and marshes 

drear. 
Their own creation. Such glad welcomings 
As Po was heard to give where Venice rose 
Hailed from aloft those ileus of truth di- 
vine 
Who near his fountains sought obscure re- 
pose, [shine. 
Yet came prepared as glorious lights to 
Shonld that be needed for their sacred 

Charge ; 
Blest Prisoners They, whose spirits wore at 
large ! 

XIV. 
WALDENSES. 

Those had given earliest notice, as the lark 
Springs from the ground the morn to grat- 

ulate ; 
Or rather rose the day to antedate, 
By striking out a solitary spark. 
When all the world with midnight gloom 

was dark. — 
Then followed the Waldensian bands, whom 

Hate 
In vain endeavors to exterminate, 
Whom Obloquy pursues with hideous bark: 
But they desist not ; — and the sacred fire, 
Rekindled thus, from dens and savage 

woods 
Moves, handed on with never-ceasing care. 
Through courts, through camps, o'er limi- 
tary floods ; 
Nor lacks this sea-girt Isle a timely share 
Of the new Flame, not suffered to expire. 

XV. 
ARCHBISHOP CHICHELV TO HENRY V. 

*' What beast in wilderness or cultured 

field 
The lively beauty of the leopard shows? 



What flower in meadow-ground or garden 

grows 
That to the towering lily doth not yield ? 
Let both meet only on thy royal shield ! 
Cio forth, great Kmg ! claim what thy birth 

bestows ; 
Conquer the Gallic lily which thy foes 
Dare to usurp ; — thou hast a sword to 

wield, 
And Heaven will crown the right." The 

mitred Sire 
Thus spake— and lo ! a Fleet, for Gaul ad- 

drest, 
Ploughs her bold course across the wonder- 
ing seas ; 
For, sooth to say, ambition, in the breast 
Of youthful heroes, is no sullen fire. 
But one that leaps to meet the fanning 

breeze, 

XVI. 
WARS OF YORK AND LANCASTER. 

Thus is the storm abated by the craft 
Of a shrewd Counssllor, eager to protect 
The Church, whose power hath recently 

been checked. 
Whose monstrous riches threatened. So the 

shaft 
Of victory mounts high, and blood is quaffed 
In fields tliat rival Cressy and Poictiers — 
Pride to be washed away by bitter tears ! 
For deep as hell itself, the avenging draught 
Of civil slaughter. Yet, while temporal 

power 
Is by these shocks exhausted, spiritual 

truth 
Maintains the else endangered gift of life ; 
Proceeds from infancy to lustv youth ; 
And, under cover of this woeful strife. 
Gathers unblighted strength from hour to 

hour. 



WICLIFFE. 

Once more the Church is seized with sud 

den fear. 
And at her call is Wicliffe disinhumcd : 
Yea, his dry bones to ashes are consumed 
And flung into the brook that travels near; 
Forthwith, that ancient Voice which Streams 

can hear 
Thus speaks (that Voice which walks upon 

the wind, 
Though seldom heard by busy human 

kind)— 



365 



rOEMS OF THE IMAG/NA710N. 



" As thou these ashes, httle Brook ! wilt 

bear 
Into the Avon, Avon to the tide 
Of Severn, Severn to the narrow seas, 
Into main Ocean they, this deed accurst 
An embiem yields to friends and enemies 
How the bold Teacher's Doctrine, sanctified 
By truth, shall spread, throughout the 

world d.spersed." 

XVIII. 
CORRUPTIONS OF THE HIGHER CLERGY 

** Woe to you, Prelates ! rioting in ease 
And cumbrous wealth — the shame of your 

estate ; [await 

You, on whose progress dazzling trains 
Of pompous horses ; whom vain titles 

please ; 
Who will be served by others on their 

knees, 
Yet will yourselves to God no service pay ; 
Pastors who neither take nor point the way 
To Heaven ; for, either lost in vanities 
Ye have no skill to teach, or if ye know 
And speak the word " Alas ! of fearful 

things 
'Tis the most fearful when the people's eye 
Abuse hath cleared from vain imaginings ; 
And taught the general voice to prophesy 
Of Justice aimed, and Pride to be laid low. 

XIX, 
ABUSE OF MONASTIC POWER. 

And what is Penance with her knotted 

thong ; 
Mortification with the shirt of hair. 
Wan cheek, and knees indurated with 

prayer. 
Vigils, and fastings rigorous as long ; 
If cloistered Avarice scruple not to wrong 
The pious, humble, useful Secular, 
And rob the people of his daily care, 
Scorning that world whose blindness makes 

her strong ? 
Inversion strange ! that, unto One who 

lives 
For self, and struggles with himself alone. 
The amplest share of heavenly favor gives ; 
That to a Monk allots, both in the esteem 
Of God and man, place higher than to him 
Who on the good of others builds his own ! 

XX. 

MONASTIC VOLUPTUOUSNESS. 

Yet more, — round many a Convent's blaz- 
ing fire 
Unhallowed threads of revelry are spun ; 



There Venus sits disguised like a Nun, — 
While Bacchus, clothed in semblance of a 

Friar, 
Pours out his choicest beverage high and 

higher 
Sparkling, until it cannot choose but run 
Over the bowl, whose silver lip hath won 
An instant kiss of masterful desire — 
To stay the precious waste. Through every 

brain 
The domination of the sprightly juice 
Spreads high conceits to madding Fancy 

dear, 
Till the arched roof, with resolute abuse 
Of its grave echoes, swells a choral strain. 
Whose votive burthen is— "Our king- 

DOM's HERE ! " 

XXI. 
DISSOLUTION OF THE MONASTERIES. 

Threats ©ome which no submission may 

assuage. 
No sacrifice avert, no power dispute ; 
The tapers shall be quenched, the belfries 

mute. 
And, 'mid their choirs unroofed by selfish 

rage, 
The warbling wren shall find a leafy cage ; 
The gadding bramble hang her purple fruit ; 
And the green lizard and the gilded newt 
Lead unmolested lives, and die of age. 
The owl of evening and the woodland fox 
For their abode the shrines of Waltham 

choose : 
Proud Glastonbury can no more refuse 
To stoop her head before these desperate 

shocks — 
She whose high pomp displaced, as story 

tells, 
Arimathean Joseph's wattled cells. 



THE same subject. 

The lovely Nun (submissive, but mora 

meek 
Through saintly habit than from effort due 
To unrelenting mandates that pursue 
With equal wrath the steps of strong and 

weak) 
Goes forth — unveiling timidly a cheek 
Suffused with blushes of celestial hue. 
While through the Convent's gate to ope« 

view 
Softly she glides another home to seek. 
Not Iris, issuing from her cloudy shriie. 
An Apparition more divinely bright I 



POEMS OF THE IMAGIXAT/OA' 



30 



Not more attractive to the dazzled sight 
Those watery j^lories, on the stormy brine 
Poured forth, while summer suns at distance 

shine, 
And the green vales lie hushed in sober 

light I 

XXIII. 
CONTINUED, 

Yet many a novice of the cloistral shade, 

And many chained by vows, with eager 
glee 

The warrant hail, exulting to be free ; 

Like ships before whose keels, full long em- 
bayed 

In polar ice, propitious winds havcj;nade 

Unlooked-for outlet to an open sea?* 

'J'lieir liquid vvorKl, for bold discovery, 

In all her quarters temptingly displayed. 

Hup J guides the young ; but when the old 
must pass 

The threshold, whither shall they turn to 
find 

The hospitality— the alms (alas ! 

Alms may be needed) which that House be- 
stowed ? 

Can they, in faith and worship, train the 
mind 

To keep this new and questionable road ? 



Ye, too, must fly before a chasing hand, 
Angels Hnd Saints, in every hamlet mourned! 
Ah ! if the old idolatry be spurned. 
Let not your radiant Shapes desert the 

Land : 
Her adoration was not your demand, 
The fond heart proffered it — the servile 

heart ; 
And therefore are ye summoned to depart, 
Michael, and thou, St. George, whose 

flaming iirand 
Til,:; Dragon quelled ; and valiant Margaret 
Wiiose rival sword a like n;i|>onent slew : 
And rapt Cecilia, serapli-hannted Queen 
()f harmony ; and we.JiVmg Magdalene, 
Who in the penitential (l;sert met 
Gales sweet as those that over Eden blew ! 

XXV. 

^^ THE VIRGIN. 

Mother! whose virgin bosom was un- 

crost 
With the least shade of thought to sin 

allied ; 



Woman ! above all women glorified, 
Our taintrd nature's solitary boast ; 
Purer than foam on central ocean tost ; 
Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak 

strewn 
With fancied roses, than the unblcmishcej 

moon 
Before her wane begins on heaven's blue 

coast ; 
Thy Image falls to earth. Yet some, 1 

ween. 
Not unforgiven the suppliant knee might 

bend, 
As to a visible Power, in which did blend 
All that was mixed and reconciled in Tiif*; 
Of mother's love with maiden purity. 
Of high with low, celestial with terrene 1 

XXVI. 



Not utterly unworthy to endure 
Was the supremacy of cralty Kome ; ^ 

Age after age to the arch of Clinstendom 
Aerial keystone haughtily .^ecure ; 
Supremacy from Heaven transmitted pure, 
As many iiold ; and, therefore, to tne tomb 
Pass, some through fire — and by the scaf- 
fold some — 
Like saintly Fisher, and unbending More. 
" Lightly for both the bosom's lord did sit 
Upon his throne," unsoftened, undis- 
mayed 
By aught that mingled with the tragic 

scene 
Of pity or fear ; and More's gay genius 

playea 
With the inoffensive sword of native w.t, 
Than the bare axe more luminous aji-.i 
keen. 

XXVII. 
IM.VGINATIVE REGRETS. 

Deep is the lamentation ! Not alone 
From Sages justly honored by mankind ; 
But from tlic ghostly tenants of the w n.i. 
Demons and Spirits, many a ci( 'orous 

groan 
Issues from that dominion overthrown : 
Proud Tiber grieves, and far-off (..anges, 

blind 
As his own worshippers, and Nile, reclined 
Upon his monstrous urn, the farewell moan 
Renews. Through every forest, cave, and 

den, 
Where frauds were hatched of ol«, hath 

sorrow past — 



308 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Hangs o'er the Arabian Prophet's native 

Waste, 
Where once his airy helpers schemed and 

planned 
'Mid spectral lakes bemocking thirsty men, 
Aad stalking pillars built of fiery sand. 



REFLECTIONS. 

Grant that by this unsparing hurricane 
Green loaves with yellowr mixed are torn 

away, 
And goodly fruitage with the mother spray ; 
'Twere madness— wished we, therefore, to 

detain, 
With hands stretched forth in mollified dis- 
dain. 
The " trumpery " that ascends in bare dis- 
play- 
Bulls, pardons, relics, cowls b.ack, white, 

and gray — 
Upwhirled, and flying o'er the ethereal 

plain 
Fast bound for Limbo Lake. And yet not 

choice 
But habit rules the unreflecting herd, 
And airy bonds are hardest to disown ; 
Hence, with the spiritual sovereignty trans- 
ferred 
Unto itself, the Crown assumes a voice 
Of reckless mastery, hitherto unknown. 



TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE. 

But, to outweigh all harm, the sacred 

Book, 
In dusty sequestration wrapt too long. 
Assumes the accents of our native tongue ; 
And he who guides the plough, or wields 

the crook, 
With understanding spirit now may look 
Upon her records, listen to her song, 
And sift her laws — much wondering that 

the wrong. 
Which Faith has suffered, Heaven could 

calmly brook. 
Transcendent boon ! noblest that earthly 

King 
Ever bestowed to equalize and bless 
Under the weight of mortal wretchedness ! 
But passions spread lik« plagues, and thou- 
sands wild 
With bigotry shall tread the Offering 
Beneath their feet, detested and defiled. 



THE POINT AT ISSUE. 

For what contend the wise ? — for nothing 

less 
Than that the Soul, freed from the bonds 

of Sense, 
And to her God restored by evidence 
Of things not seen, drawn forth from their. 

recess, 
Root there, and not in forms, her holi- 
ness ; — 
For Faith, which to the Patriarchs did dis 

pense 
Suve guidance, ere a ceremonial fence 
Wasjeedtul round men thirsting to trans- 
gress : — 
For ^Faith, more perfect still, with which 

the Lord 
Of all, himself a Spirit, in the youth 
Of Christian aspiration, deigned to fill 
The temples of their hearts who, with his 

word 
Informed, were resolute to do his will, 
And woiship him in spirit and in truth. 

XXXI. 

EDWARD VI. 

" Sweet is (I e holiness of Youth "—so 

felt 
Time-honored Chaucer speaking through 

that Lay 
By which the Prioress beguiled the way. 
And many a Pilgrim's rugged heart did 

melt. 
Hadst thou, loved Bard ! whose spirit (iftcn 

dwelt 
In the clear land of vision, but foreseen 
King, child, and seraph, blended in the 

mien 
Of pious Edward kneeling as he knelt 
In meek and simple infancy, what jov 
For universal Christendom had tlirillrd 
Thy heart ! what hopes inspired thy genius, 

" skilled 
(O great Precursor, genuine morning Star) 
The lucid shafts of reason to employ, 
Piercing the Papal darkness from afar ! 



EDWARD SIGNING THE WARRANT FOR 
THE EXECUTION OF JOAN OF KENT. 

TiiF, tears of man in various measure gush 
From various sources ; gently overflow 
From blissful tr.insport" some — from clefU 
of v/oe 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATIOI^. 



369 



Some with ungovernable impulse rush ; 
And some, coeval with tlie earliest blush 
Of infant passion, scarcely dare to show 
Their pearly lustre — coming but to <40 ; 
And some break forth wlien others' sorrows 

crush 
The sympathizing heart. Nor these, nor 

yet 
The noblest drops to admiration known, 
To gratitude, to injuries forgiven — 
Claim Heaven's regard like waters that have 

wet 
The innocent eyes of youthful Monarchs 

driven 
To pen the mandates nature doth disown. 



REVIVAL OF POPERY. 

The saintly Youth has ceased to rule, dis- 
crowned 
By unrelenting Death. O People keen 
For change, to whom the new looks always 

green ! 
Rejoicing did they cast upon the ground 
Their Gods of W(jod and stone ; and, at the 

sound 
Of counter-proclamation, now are seen, 
(Proud triumph is it for a sullen Queen !) 
Lifting them up, the worship to confound 
Of the Most High. Again do they invoke 
The Creature, to the Creature glory give ; 
Again with frankincense the altars smoke 
Like those the Heathen served ; and mass 

is sung ; 
And prayer, man's rational prerogative, 
Runs through blind channels of an unknown 
tongue. 

XXXIV. 

LATIMER AND RIDLEY. 

How fast the Marian death-list is unrolled! 

See Latimer and Ridley in the might 

Of Faith stand coupled for a common 
flight ! 

One (like those prophets whom God sent of 
old) 

Transfigured, from this kindling hath fore- 
told 

A torch of inextinguishable light ; 

The Other gains a confidence as bold ; 

And thus they foil their enemy's despite. 

The penal instruments, the shows of crime. 

Are glorified while this once-mitred pair 

Of saintly Friends the " raurtherei's chain 
partake, 



Corded, and burning at the social stake : " 
Earth never witnessed object more sublime 
In constancy, in fellowship more fair I 



CRANMER. 

Outstretching flame-ward his upbraided 

hand 
(O Cod of mercy, may no earthly Seat 
Of judgment such presumptuous doom re- 
peat !) 
Amid tlie shuddering throng doth Cranmer 

stand ; 
Firm as the stake to which with iron band 
His frame is tied; firm from the naked feet 
'^ the bare head. The victory is com- 
plete ; 
The shrouded Pody to the Soul's command 
Answers wich more than Indian fortitude. 
Through all her nerves with finer ser.se 

endued, 
Till breath departs in blissful aspiration : 
Then, 'mid the ghastly ruins of the fire. 
Behold the unalterable Iieart entire. 
Emblem of faith untouched, miraculous at- 
testation ! 



GENERAL VIEW OF THE TROUBLES OF 
THE REFORMATION. 

Aid, glorious Martyrs, from your fields of 

light, 
Our niortal ken ! Inspire a perfect trust 
(While we look round) that Heaven's de- 
crees are jast ; 
Which few can hold committed to a fight 
That shows, ev'n on its better side, the 

might 
Of proud Self-will, Rapacity, and Lust, 
'Mid clouds enveloped of polemic dust. 
Which showers of blood seem rather to in- 
cite 
Than to allay. Anathemas are hurled 
From both sides ; veteran thunders (the 

brute test 
Of truth) are met by fulminations new — 
Tartarean flags are caught at and un* 

furled— 
Friends strike at friends— the flying shall 

pursue — 
And Victory sickens, ignorant where \% 
rest ! 



370 



POEMS OF THE IMAG/NATIOiV. 



XXXVII. 
ENGLISH REFORMERS IN EXILE. 

Scattering, like birds escaped the fowl- 
er's net, 
Some seek with timely flight a foreign 

strand ; 
Most happy, re-assembled in a land 
By dauntless Luther freed, could they for- 
get 
Their Country*; woes. But scarcely have 

tlu-y met, 
Partners m faith, and brothers in distress, 
Free to pour forth their common thankful- 
ness. 
Ere hope declines : — their union is beset 
W.tli speculative notions rashly sown, 
Whence thickly-sprouting growth of poi- 
sonous weeds ; 
Their forms are broken staves ; their pas- 
sions, steeds 
That master them. How enviably blest 
Is lie who can, by help of grace, enthrone 
The peace of God within liis single breast ! 

XXXVIII. 
ELIZABETH. 

Hail, Virgin Oueen ! o'er many an envious 

bar 
Triumphant, snatched from many a treach- 
erous wile ! 
All hail, sage Lady, whom a grateful Isle 
Hath blest, respiring from that dismal war 
Stilled by thy voice ! But quickly from 

afar 
Defiance breathes with more malignant 

aim ; 
And alien storms with home-bred ferments 

claim 
Portentous fcllowshiix Her silver car. 
By sleepless prudence ruled, glides slowly 

on ; 
Unhurt by violence, from menaced taint 
Emerging jiure, and seemingly more bright : 
Ah ! wherefore yields it to a foul constraint 
Biack as tlie chnids its beams dispersed, 

while shone, 
By men and angels blest, the glorious light ; 

XXX^IX. 

eminent reformers, 

Methinks that 1 could trip o'er heaviest 

soil. 
Light as a buoyant bark frfim wave to wave, 



Were mine the trusty staff that Jewell 

gave 
To youthful Hooker, in familiar style 
The gift exalting, and with playful smile : 
For thus equipped, and bearing on his head 
The Donor's farewell blessing, can he dread 
Tempest, or length of way, or weight of 

toil ?— 
More sweet than odors caught by him who 

sails 
Near spicy shores of Araby the blest, 
A thousand times more exf|uisitely sweet. 
The freight of holy feeling wliich we meet, 
In tlioughtful moments, wafted by the gales 
From fields where good men walk, or 

bovvers wherein they rest. 



the same. 

Holy and heavenly Spirits as they are, 
Spotless in life, and eloquent as wise. 
With what entire atiectioii do they prize 
Their Church reformed ! lalioring with earn* 

est care 
To baffle all that may her strength impair ; 
Tiiat Church, tlie un perverted Gospel's 

seat; 
In their afflictions a divine retreat ; 
Source of their liveliest hope and tenderest 

prayer ! — 
The truth exploring with an equal n^nd. 
In doctrine and communion they have 

sought 
Firmly between the two extremes to steer; 
But theirs tlie wise man's ordinary lot. 
To trace right courses for the stubborn blind, 
And prophesy to ears tliat will not hear. 



distractions. 

Men, who have ceased to reverence, soon 

defy 
Their forefathers ; lo ! sects are formed, ancj 

split 
With morbid restlessness ; — the ecstatic fit 
Spreads wide ; though special mysteries 

multiply, 
T/ie Saints must govern, is their common 

cry; 
And so they labor, deeming Holy Writ 
Disgraced by aught that seems content to 

sit 
Beneath the roof of settled Modesty. 
The Romanist exults ; fresh hope he draw| 
From the confusion, craftily incites 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



371 



The overweening, personates the mad — 
To heap disgust upon the worthier Cause : 
Totters the Throne ; the new-born Church 

is sad 
For every wave against lier peace unites. 



GUNPOWDER PLOT. 

Fear hath a hundred eyes that all agree 
To plague her beating heart : and there is 

one 
(Nor idlest that !) which holds communion 
With things that were not, yet were meant 

to be. 
Aghast within its gloomy cavity 
That eye (which sees as if fulfilled and done 
Crimes that might stop the motion cf the 

sun) 
Beholds the horrible catastrophe 
Of an assembled Senate unredeemed 
From subterraneous Treason's darkling 

power : 
Merciless act of sorrow infinite ! 
Worse than the product of that dismal 

night. 
When gushing, coitions as a thunder-shower, 
The blood of Huguenots tlirough Paris 

streamed. 

XLIII. 

ILLUSTRATION. 

THE JUNG-FRAU AND THE FALL OF THE 

RHINE NEAR SC HAFFHAUSEN. 

The Virgin Mountain,* wearing like a 

Queen 
A brilliant crown of everlasting snow. 
Sheds ruin from her sides ; and men below 
Wonder that aught of aspect so serene 
Can link with desolation. Smooth and 

green, 
And seeming, at a little distance, slow. 
The waters of the Rhine ; but on they go 
Fretting and whitening, keener and more 

keen ; 
Till madness seizes on the whole wide 

Flood, 
Turned to a fearful Thing whose nostrils 

breathe 
Blasts of tempestuous smoke— wherewith 

he tries 
To hide himself, but only magnifies ; 
And doth in more conspicuous torment 

writhe, 
Deafening the region in his ireful mood. 



* The Jung-frau. 



TROUPLES OF CHARLES THE FIRST. 

Even such the contrast that, where'er we 

move. 
To the mind's eye Religion doth present ; 
Now with her own deep quietness content ; 
Tnen, like the mountain, thundering froiu 

above 
Against the ancient pine-trees of the grove 
And the Land's humblest comforts. No\< 

her mood 
Recalls the transformation of the flood, 
Whose rage the gentle skies in vain reprove, 
Earth cannot check. O terrible excess 
Of headstrong will ! Can this be Piety ? 
No — some fierce Maniac hath usurped her 

name, 
And scourges England struggling to be 

free : 
Her peace destroyed ! her hopes a v.ilder- 

ness ! 
Her blessings cursed — her glory turned to 

shame. 



LAUD. 

Prejudged by foes determined not to 

spare, 
An old weak Man for vengeance thrown 

aside, 
Laud, " in the painful art of dying " tried, 
(Like a poor bird entangled in a snare 
Whose heart still flutters, though his wings 

forbear 
To stir in useless struggle) hath relied 
On hope that conscious innocence supplied, 
And in his prison breathes celestial air. 
Why tarries then thy chariot? Wherefore 

stav, 
O Death ! the ensanguined yet triumphant 

wheels. 
Which thou prepar'st, full often, to convey 
( What time a State with madding faction 

reels) 
The Saint or Patriot to the world that heals 
All wounds, all perturbations doth allay ? 

XLVI. 
AFFLICTIONS OF ENGLAND. 

Harp ! could'st thou venture, on thy boldest 

string. 
The faintest note to echo which the blast 
Caught from the hand of Moses as it pass'd 
O'er Sinai's top, or from the Shepherd-king, 
Early awake, by Siloa's brook, to sing 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION". 



Of dread Jehovah ; then, should wood and 

waste 
Hear also of that name, and mercy cast 
Otf to the mountains, like a covering 
Of which the Lord was we.iry. Weep, oh ! 

weep, 
Weep with the good, beholding King and 

Priest 
Despised by that stern Cod to wliom they 

raise 
Their suppliant hands ; but holy is the 

feast 
He keepcth ; like the firmament his ways : 
His statutes like tlie cliambcrs of the deep. 



PART HI. 



FROM THE RESTORATION TO THl 
EN r TIMES. 



I saw the figure of a lovely !\Iaid 

Seated alone beneath a darksome tree, 

WHiose fondly-overhanging canopy 

Set off her briglitnoss wifli a pleasing sliadc. 

No sj)irit was she ; that my heart betrayed, 

I'or she was one I loved exceedingly ; 

liut while I gazed in tender reverie 

(Or was it sleep that with my Fancy 

played ?) 
The bright corporeal presence — form and 

face — 
Remaining still distinct grew thin ?nd rare, 
Like sunny mist ; — at length the golden 

hair, 
Shape, limbs, and heavenly features, keep- 
ing pace 
Kach with the other in a lingering race 
Of dissolution, melted into air. 



PATRIOTIC SYMPATHIES. 

Last night, without a voice, that Vision 

spake 
Fear to my Soul, and sadness which might 

seem 
Wholly diss vered from our present theme ; 
Yet, my beloved country ! I partake 
Of kindred agitations for thy sake ; 
Thou, too, dost visit oft my midnight 

dream ; 
Thy glory meets me with the earliest beam 
Of liglit, which tells that Morning is awake. 
If auglit impair tliy beautv or destroy, 
Or but forebode destruction, ] deplore 



With filial love the sad vicissitude ; 

If thou hast fallen, and righteous t-leaven 

restore 
The prostrate, then my spring-time is re 

newed, 
And sorrow bartered for exceeding joy. 

III. 

CHARLES THE SECOND. 

Who comes — with rapture greeted, and 

caress'd 
With frantic love — his kingdom to regain? 
Him Virtue's Nurse, Adversity, in vain 
Received, and fostered in her irci; breast : 
For all she taught of hardiest and of. best, 
Or would have taught, by discipline cf pain 
And long privation, now dissolves amain, 
Or is remembered only to give zest 
To wantonness. — Away, Circean revels ! 
But for what gain .-' if England scon must 

sink 
Into a gulf which all distinction levels — 
That bigotry may swallow the good name, 
And, with that draught, the lifeblcod: 

misery, shame, 
By Poets loathed; from which Historians 

shrink I 



LATITUDINARIANISM. 

Yet Truth is keenly sought for, and the 

wind 
Charged with rich words poured out in 

tliought's defence ; 
Whether the Church inspire that eloquence, 
Or a Platonic Piety confined 
To tlie sole temple of the inward mind ; 
And One there is who builds immortal lays, 
Though doomed to tread in solitary ways, 
Darkness before and danger's voice behind ; 
Yet not alone, nor helpless to repel 
Sad thoughts ; for from above tlie starry 

sphere 
Come secrets, whispered nightly to his ear; 
And the pure spirit of celestial light 
Shines through his soul — " that he may see 

and tell 
Of things invisible to mortal sight." 



WALTON S BOOK CF LIVES. 

There are no colors in the fairest sky 
So fair as these. The feather, whence the 

pen 
Was shaped that traced the lives of thesf 

good men, 



POEMS OF THE I MAG [NATION. 



373 



Dropped from an Angel's wing. Witli 

moistened eye 
We read of f;iith and purest charity 
In Statesman, Priest, and liumble Citizen : 
O could we copy their mild virtues, then 
What joy to live, what blessedness to die ! 
Methinks their very names shine still and 

bri-ht ; 
Apart — like glow-worms on a summer 

night ; 
Or lonely tapers when from far they flin!:^ 
A guiding ray ; or seen — like stars on high, 
Satellites burning in a lucid ring 
Around meek Walton's heavenly memory. 



CLERICAL INTEGRITY. 

Nor shall the eternal roll of praise reject 
Tiiose Unconforming ; whom one rigorous 

day 
Drives from their Cures, a voluntary prey 
To poverty, and grief, and disrespect, 
And some to want — as if by tempests 

wrecked 
On a wild coast ; how destitute ! did They 
Feel not that Conscience never can betray, 
That peace of mind is Virtue's sure effect. 
Their altars they forego, their homes they 

quit. 
Fields which they love, and paths they 

daily trod, 
And cast the future upon Providence; 
As men the dictate of whose inward sense 
Outweighs the world ; whom self-deceiving 

wit 
Lures not from what they deem the cause 

of God. 



PERSECUTION OF THE SCOTTISH COV- 
ENANTERS. 

When Alpine Vales threw forth a suppliant 

cry, 
The majesty of England interposed 
And the sword stopped; the bleeding 

wounds were closed ; 
And Faith preserved her ancient purity. 
How little boots that precedent of good, 
Scorned or forgtjtten, Thou canst testify, 
Fur England's shame, O Sister Realm 1 

from wood. 
Mountain, and moor, and crowded street, 

wlicre lie 
The headless martyrs of the Covenant, 
filam by Compatriot-protestants that draw 



From councils senseless as intolerant 

Their warrant. Bodies fall by wild sword- 
law ; 

But who would force the Soul tilts with a 
stiaw 

Againsl a Champion cased in adamant. 

VIII. 
ACQUITTAL OF THE BISHOPS. 

A VOICE, from long-expecting thousands 

sent, 
Shatters the air, and troubles tower and 

spire ; 
For Justice hath absolved the innocent, 
And Tyranny is balked of her desire : 
Up, down, the busy Thames — rapid as fire 
Coursing a train of gunpowder— it went, 
And transport finds in every street a vent, 
Till the whole City rings like one vast quire. 
The Fathers urge the People to be still. 
With outstretched hands and earnest speoch 

— in vain ! 
Yea, many, haply wont to entertain 
Small reverence for the mitre's offices, 
And to Religion's self no friendly will, 
A Prelate's blessing ask on bended knees. 

IX 

WILLIAM THE THIRD. 

Calm as an under-current, strong to draw 
Milhons of waves into itself, and run, 
From sea to sea, impervious to the sun 
And ploughing storm, the spirit of Nassau 
Swerves not, (how blest if by religious awe 
Swayed, and thereby enabled to contend 
With the wide world's commotions) from its 

end 
Swerves not — diverted by a casual law. 
Had mortal action e'er a nobler scope .-• 
The Hero comes to liberate, not defy ; 
And, while he marches on with steadfast 

hope, 
Conqueror beloved ! expected anxiously ! 
Tlie vacillating Bondman of the Pope 
Shrinks from the verdict of his steadfast 

eye. 

X. 

OBLIGATIONS OF CIVIL TO RELIGIOUS 
LIBERTY. 

Ungrateful Country, if thou e'er forget 
The sons who for thy civil rights have bled.' 
How, like a Roman, Sidney bowed hi? 

head, 
And Riissel's milder blood the scaffold wet; 



374 



POEMS OF THE IMA G /NAT/ON'. 



1 



But chcse had fallen for profitless rej^ret 
Had not thy holy Church her champions 

bred, 
And claims from other worlds inspirited 
The star of Liberty to rise. Nor yet 
(Grave this within thy heart !) if spiritual 

things 
Be lost tiirough apathy, or scorn, or fear, 
Shalt thou thy humbler franchise support, 
However hardly won or justly dear : 
What came from heaven to heaven by 

nature clings, 
And, if dissevered thence, its course is short. 



SACHEVEREL. 

A SUDI EN conflict rises from the swell 
Of a proud slavery met by tenets strained 
In Liberty's behalf. Fears, true or feigned, 
Spread through all ranks; and lo ! the 

Sentinel 
Who loudest rang his pulpit 'larum bell 
Stands at the Bar, absolved by female eyes 
Mingling their glances with grave flatteries 
Lavished on Him — that England may rebel 
Against her ancient virtue. High and 

Low, 
Watch-words of Party, on all tongues are 

rife ; 
As if a Church, though sprung from heaven, 

must owe 
To opposites and fierce extremes her life, — 
Not tc the golden mean, and quiet flow 
Of truths that soften hatred, temper strife. 



Down a swift Stream, thus far, a bold 

design 
Have we pursued, with livelier stir of heart 
Than his who sees, borne forward by the 

Rhine, 
The living landscapes greet him, and depart ; 
Sees spires fast sinking — up again to start ! 
And strives the towers to number, that 

recline 
O'er the dark steeps, or on the horizon line 
Striding with shattered crests his eye 

athwart. 
So have we hurried on with troubled pleas- 
ure : 
Henceforth, as on the bosom of a stream 
That slackens, and spreads wide a watery 

gleam, 
We, nothing loth a lingering course to 

measure. 



May gather up our thoughts, and mark at 

leisure 
How widely spread the interests of our 

theme. 



XIII. 

ASPECTS OF CHRISTIANITY IN AMERICA 

I. — THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 

Well worthy to be magnified are they 
Who, with sad hearts, of friends and coun- 

try took 
A last farewell, their loved abode forsook, 
And hallowed ground in which their fathers 

lay ; 
Then to tlie new-found World explored their 

way, 
That so a Church, unforced, uncalled to 

brook 
Ritual restraints, within some sheltering 

nook 
Her Lord might worship and his word obey 
In freedom. Men they were who could not 

bend ; 
Blest Pilgrims, surely, as they took for 

guide 
A will by sovereign Conscience sanctified ; 
Blest while their Spirits from the woods 

ascend 
Along a Galaxy that knovs no end. 
But is His glory who for Sinners died, 

XIV. 
II. CONTINUED. 

From Rite and Ordinance abused they fled 
To Wilds where both were utterly un- 
known ; 
But not to them had Providence foreshown 
What benefits are missed, what evils bred. 
In worship neither raised nor limited 
Save by Self-will. Lo ! from that distant 

shore. 
For Rite and Ordinance, Piety is led 
Back to the Land tliose Pilc;rims left of yore; 
Led by her own free choice. So Truth and 

Love 
By Conscience governed do their steps re- 

trace.— 
F"athers! your Virtues, such the power of 

grace. 
Their spirit, in your Children, thus ap- 
prove. 
Transcendent over time, unbound by place. 
Concord and Charity in circles move. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGIN'ATION'. 



375 



in. CONCLUDED. — AMERICAN EPIS- 
COPACY. 

Patriots informed with Apostolic light 
Were they, who, when their Country had 

been freed, 
Bowing with reverence to the ancient creed, 
Fixed on the frame of England's Church 

their sight, 
And strove in filial love to reunite 
What force had severed. Thence they 

fetched the seed 
Of Christian unity, and won a meed 
Of praise from Heaven. To Thee, O 

saintly White, 
Patriarch of a wide-spreading family, 
Remotest lands and unborn times shall 

turn, 
Wliether they would restore or build — to 

Thee, 
As one who rightly taught how zeal should 

burn, 
^s one who drew from our Faith's holiest 

urn 
The purest stream of patient Energy. 



Bishops and Priests, blessed are ye, if 

deep 
(As yours above all offices is high) 
Deep in your hearts the sense of duty lie ; 
Charged as ye are by Christ to feed and 

keep 
From wolves your portion of his chosen 

sheep • 
Laljoring ?s ever in your Masters sight. 
Making yoar hardest task your best delight, 
What perfect glory ye in Heaven shall 

reap ! — 
lint, in the solemn Ofifice which ye sought 
And undertook premonished, if unsound 
Vour practice prove, faithless though but in 

thought. 
Bishops r.nd Priests, think what a gulf pro- 
found 
Awaits you then, if they were rightly taught 
Who framed the Ordinance by your lives 

disowned ! 

xvii. 

^ PLACES OF WORSHIP. 

As star that shines dependent upon star 

Is to the slcy while we look up in love ; 

A.S to the deep fair ships which though they 



Seem fixed, to eyes that watch them from 

afar ; 
As to the sandy desert fountains are, 
With paim-groves shaded at wide intervals, 
Whose fruit around the sun-burnt Native 

falls 
Of roving tired or desultory war — 
Such to this British Isle her Christian Fanes, 
Each linked to each other for kindred 

services ; 
Her Spires, her Steeple-towers with glitter- 
ing vanes 
Far-kenned, her Chapels lurking among 

trees. 
Where a few villagers on bended knees 
Find solace which a busy world disdains. 



PASTORAL CHARACTER. 

A GENIAL hearth, a hospitable board, 

And a refined rusticity, belong 

To the neat mansion, where, his flock 

among, 
The l.arned Pastor dwells, their watcliful 

Lord. 
Though meek and patient as a sheathed 

sword ; 
Though pride's least lurking thought ap- 
pears a wrong 
To human kind ; though peace be on his 

tongue. 
Gentleness in his heart — can earth afford 
Such genuine state, pre-eminence so free, 
As when, arrayed in Christ's authority. 
He from the pulpit lifts his awful hand ; 
("onjures, implores, and labors all he can 
For re-subjecting to divine command 
The stubborn spirit of rebellious man M 



THE LITURGY. 

Yes, if the intensities of hope and fear 
Attract us still, and passionate exercise 
Of lofty thoughts, the way before us lies 
Distinct with signs, through which in set 

career. 
As through a zodiac, moves the ritual year 
Of England's Church ; stupendous mys- 
teries ! 
Which whoso travels in her bosom eyes, 
As he approaches them, with solemn rlieer 
Upon that circle traced from sacred story 
We only dare to cast a transient glance. 



376 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATIOI^. 



Trusting in hope that Others may advance 
Witii mind intent upon the King of CHory, 
From his mild advent tillliis countenance 
Shall dissipate the seas and mountains 
hoaryc 



Dkar be the Church, that, watching o'er 

the needs 
Of Infai.cy, provides a timely shower 
Whose virtue changes to a Christian Flower 
A Growth from sinful Nature's bed of 

weeds ! — 
Fitliest beneath the sacred roof proceeds 
Tlie ministration ; while parental Love 
Looks on, and Grace desccndeth from above 
As the high service pledges now, now 

pleads. 
There, should vain thoughts outspread their 

wings and fly 
To meet the coming hours of festal mirtli, 
The tombs — which hear and answer that 

brief cry, 
The Infant's notice of his second birth — 
Recall the wandering Soul to synijiatliy 
With what man hopes from Heaven, yet 

fears from Earth. 



SPONSORS. 

Father! to God himself we cannot give 
A liolier name ! then liglitly do not bear 
Botli names conjoined, but of thy spiritual 

care 
Be duly mindful : still more sensitive 
Do Thou, in truth a second Mother, strive 
Against disheartening custom, that by Thee 
Watched, and with love and pious industry 
Tended at need, the adopted Plant may 

thrive 
For everlasting bloom. Benign and pure 
This Ordinance, whether loss it would sup- 
ply, 
Prevent omission, help deficiency. 
Or seek to make assurance douhlv sure. 
Shame if the consecrated Vow be found 
An idle form, the Word an empty sound I 

XXII. 

CATECHISING. 

From Little down to Lea^, in due degree, 
Around the Pastor, each in new-wrought 

vest, 
Each with a vernal posy at his breast, 



We stood, a trembling, earnest Company ! 
With low soft nnumur, like a d'stai:t bee. 
Some spake, by thought-perplexing fe«rs b« 

trayed ; 
And some a bold unerring answer made • 
How fluttered then thy anxious heart fot 

me, 1 

Beloved Mother ! Thou whose happy hand J 
Had bound the flowers 1 wore, with faithful i 

tie: 
Sweet flowers ! at whose inaudible command 
Her countenance, phantom-like, doth re- 
appear ; 

lost too early for ihe frequent tear. 

And ill requited by this heartfelt sigh ! | 

xxiii. T 

CONFIRMATION, 

The Young-ones gathered in from hill and 

dale, ■ j 

With holiday dolight on every brow: , 

'Tis passed away ; far other thoughts pre- 
vail ; 
For they are taking the baptismal Vow 
Upon their conscious selves; their own ^ips 

sp„ak 
The solemn promise. Strongest sinews 

tail. 
And many a blooming, many a lovely, cheek 
Under the holy fear of (lod turn.s pale ; 
While on each head his lawn-rolxd Servant 

lays 
An apostolic hand, and with prayer seals 
The Covenant. The Omnipotent will raise 
I'heir feeble Souls ; and bear with his 

regrets. 
Who, looking round the fair assemblage, 

feels 
That ere the Sun goes down their childhood 
sets. 

XXIV. 

CONFIRMATION CONTINUED. 

1 SAW a Mother's eye intensely bent 
Upon a Maiden trembling as she knelt ; 
In and for whom the pious Mother felt 
Things that we jutlge of by a light too faint : 
Tell, if ye may, some star-crowned Muse, oi 

Saint ! 

Tell what rushed in, from what she was re- 
lieved — 

Then, when her Child the hallowing touch 
received, 

And such vibration through the Mother went 

That tears burst forth amain. Did giciiii* 
appear ? 



POEMS OF THE lAfAGlArATlOI^. 



$11 



Opened a vision of that blissful place 
Where dwells a Sister-child ? And was power 

given 
Part of her lost One's glory back to trace 
Even to this Rite ? For thus S/ic knelt, 

and ere 
The suninier-leaf had faded, passed to 

Heaven. 



SACRAMENT. 

By chain yet stronger must the Soul be tied 
One duty more, last stage of this ascent, 
l^rings to thy food, mysterious Sacrament ! 
The Offspring, haply at the Parent's side ; 
Rut not till They, with all that do abide 
In Heaven, have lifted up their hearts to laud 
And magnify the glorious name of God, 
Fountain of grace, whose Son for sinners 

died. 
Ye, who have duly weighed the summons, 

pause 
No longer ; ye, whom to the saving rite 
The Altar calls ; come early under laws 
That can secure for you a path of light 
Through gloomiest shade ; put on (nor dread 

its weight) 
Armor divine, and conquer in your cause ! 

XXVI. 
THE MARRIAGE CEREMONY. 

The Vested Priest before the Altar stands ; 
Approach, come gladly, ye prepared, in sight 
Of God and chosen friends, your troth to 

plight 
With the symbolic ring, and willing hands 
Solemnly joined. Now sanctify the bands, 
O Father ! — to the Espoused thy blessing 

give, 
That mutually assisted they may live 
Obedient, as here taught, to thy commands. 
So prays the Church, to consecrate a Vow 
" The which would endless matrimony 

make ; " 
Union that shidows forth and doth partake 
A mystery potent human love to endow 
With heavenly, each more prized for the 

other's sake ; 
Weep not, meek Bride ! uplift thy timid 

brow. 

XXVII. 
THANKSGIVING AFTER CHILDBIRTH. 

Woman ! the Power who left his throne on 

high, 
And deigned to wear the robe of flesh we 

v;ear. 



'J"he Power that thro' the straits of Infancy 
Did pass dependent on maternal care, 
His own iuinianity with J liee will share, 
Pleased with the thanks that in his People's 

eye 
Thou offerest uji for safe Delivery 
From childbirth's perilous throes. And 

should the Heir 
Of thy fond hopes hereafter walk inclined 
To courses fit to make a mother rue 
Tiiat ever he was born, a glance of mind 
Cast upon this observance may renew 
A better will ; and, in the imagined view 
Of thee thus kneeling, safety he may find. 

XXVIII. 
VISITATION OF THE SICK. 

The Sabbath bells renew the inviting po,?l ; 
Glad music! yet there be tiiat, worn \\\\\\ 

pain 
And sickness, listen where they long have 

lain, 
In sadness listen. With maternal zeal 
Inspired, the Church sends ministers to 

kneel 
Beside the afflicted ; to sustain with prayer, 
And soothe the heart confession hath laid 

bare — 
That pardon, from God's throne, may set its 

seal 
On a true Penitent. When breath departs 
From one disburthened so, so comforted, 
His Spirit Angels greet ; and ours be hope 
That, if the Sufferer rise from his sick-bed, 
Hence he will gain a firmer mind, to cope 
With a bad world, and foil the Tempter's 

arts.. 



THE COMMINATION SERVICE. 

Shun not this Rite, neglected, yea abhorred, 
By some of unreflecting mind, as calling 
Man to curse man, (thought monstrous anc? 

appalling.) 
Go thou and hear the threatenings of the 

Lord ; 
Listening within his Temple see his sword 
Unsheathed in wrath to strike the offender's 

head. 
Thy own, if sorrow for thy sin be dead, 
Guilt unrepented, pardon unimplored. 
Two aspects bears Truth needful for salva- 
tion ; 
Who knows not that ? — yet would this 
delicate age 



378 



POEMS OF THE nrAGINATION. 



I 



[.of»k only on the Gospel's brighter page : 
Let light and dark duly our tlioiights employ ; 
So shall the fearful words of Commination 
Yield timely fruit of peace and love and joy. 



FORMS OF PRAYER AT SEA. 

To kneeling worshippers no earthly floor 

Gives holier invitation than the deck 

Of a storm-shattered Vessel saved from 

Wreck 
(When all that man could do avail'd no 

more) 
By him who raised the Tempest and re- 
strains : 
Hajipy the crew who this have felt, and pour 
Forth for his mercy, as the Church ordains, 
Solemn thanksgiving. Nor will iJiey implore 
In vain who, for a rightful cause, give breath 
To words the Church prescribes aiding the 

lip 
For the heart's sake, ere ship with hostile 

ship 
Encounters, armed for work of pain and 

deatli. 
Suppliants ! the God to whom your cause ye 

trust 
Will listen, and ye know that He is just. 



FUNERAL SERVICE. 

From the Baptismal hour, thro' weal and 

woe. 
The Church extends her care to thought and 

deed; 
Nor quits the Body when the Soul is freed, 
The mortal weight cast off to be laid low. 
Blest Rite for him who hears in faith, " I 

know 
That my Redeemer liveth," — hears each 

word 
That follows — striking on some kindred 

chord 
Deep in the thankful heart ; — yet tears will 

flow. 
M m is as grass that springeth up at morn. 
Grows green, and is cut down and withereth 
Ere nightfall— truth that well may claim a 

sish, 
]*^s natural echo ; but hope comes reborn 
At Jesu's bidding. We rejoice, " O Death, 
Where is thy Sting ?— O Grave, where is thy 

Victory ? " 



rural CEREMONY. 

Closing the sacred Book which long haa 

fed 
Our meditations, give we to a day 
Of annual joy one tributary lay ; 
This day, when, forth by rustic music led, 
'J"hc village Children, while the sky is red 
With evening lights, advance in long array 
Through the still church-yard, each with 

garland gay. 
That, carried sceptre-like, o'ertops the head 
Of the proud Bearer. To the wide church- 
door. 
Charged with these offerings which their 

fathers bore 
For decoration in the Papal tin>e, 
The inn(!ceiit Procession softly moves : — 
The spirit of Laud is pleased in heaven's 

pure clime, 
And Hooker's voice the spectacle approves/ 



REGRETS. 

Would that our scrupulous Sires had dared 

to leave 
Less scanty measure of those graceful riles 
And usages, whose due return invites 
A stir of mind too natural to deceive ; 
Giving to Memory help when she would 

weave 
A crown for Hope !— I dread the boasted 

lights 
That all too often are but fiery blights, 
Killing the bud o'er which in vain we grieve. 
Go, seek, when Christmas snows discomfort 

bring. 
The counter Spirit found in some gay chiirch 
Green with tresh holly, every pew a perch 
in which-the linnet or the thrush nughtsmg, 
Merry and loud and sale from prying search, 
Strains otfered only to the genial :. pnng. 



MUTABILITY. 

From low to high doth dissolution climb, 
And sink from high to low, along a scale 
01 awful notes, whose concord sluiil nol i.nl, 
A musical but melancholy cliim^. 
Which they can hear who mecluic not with 

crime. 
Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care. 
Truth fails not; but her outward forms that 

bear 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



37^ 



The longest date do melt like frosty rime, 
That in "the mornin::; whitened hill and j/lain 
I And is no more ; deep like the tower sublime 
Of yesterday, wliich royally did wear 
His crown of weeds, but could not even sus- 
tain 
Some casual shout tliat lirokc the silent air, 
Oi the unimacrinable touch of Time. 



OLD ABT'EYS. 

Monastic Domes, following my downward 

way, 
Untouched by due regret I marked your fall ! 
Now, ruin, beauty, ancient stillness, all 
Dispose to judgments temperate as we lay 
On our past selves in life's declining day : 
For as, by discipline of Time made wise, 
We learn to tolerate the infirmities 
And faults of others- gently as he may, 
t^o with our own the mild Instructor deals. 
Teaching us to forget them or forgive. 
Perversely curious, then, for hidden ill 
Why should we break Time's charitable 

seals ? 
Once ye were holy, ye are holy still ; 
Your spirit freely let me drink, and live 

XXXVI. 
EMIGRANT FRENCH CLERGY, 

Even while I speak, the sacred roofs of 
France 
t Are shattered into dust ; and self-exiled 
1 From altars threatened, levelled, or defiled, 
\ Wander the Ministers of God, as chance 
j Opens a way for life, or consonance 
I Of faith invites. More welcome to no land 

The fugitives than to the British strand, 
' Where priest and layman with the vigilance 
, Of true compassion greet them. Creed and 

test 
Vanish before the unreserved embrace 
Of catholic humanity : — distrcst 
Tliey came — and, while the moral tempest 

roars 
Throughout the Country they have left, our 

shores 
Give to their Faith a fearless resting-place. 

XXXVII. 

CONGRATULATION. 

Thus all tinngs lead to Charity, secured 
By THEM who blessed the soft and happy 



That landward urged the great Deliverer'* 

sail, 
'Jill in the sunny bay his fleet was moored ' 
Propitious hour ! have we, like them, en 

dured 
Sore stress of apprehension, with a mind 
Sickened by injuries, dreading worse de- 
signed. 
From month to month trembling and un- 

assur d. 
How had we then rejoiced! But we iiavo 

' It, 
Asa loved substance, their futurity : 
Good, which they dared not hope for, v/'. 

have seen ; 
A State whose generous will through ea. t!^. 

is dealt ; 
A .State^which, balancing herself between 
License and slavish order, dares be free. 



NEW CHURCHES. 

But liberty, and triumphs on the Main, 
And laurelled armies, not to be withstood— 
What serve they ? if, f)n transitory good 
Intent, and sedulous of abject gain. 
The State (ah, surely not preserved in vain !) 
Forbear to shape due channels which the 

Flood 
Of sacred truth may enter — till it brood 
O'er the wide realm, as o'er the Egyptian 

plain 
The all-sustaining Nile. No more — the 

time 
Is conscious of her want ; through England's 

bounds, 
In rival haste, the wished-for Temples rise ! 
I hear their sabbath bells' harmonious chime 
Float on the breeze — the heavenliest of all 

sounds 
That vale or hill prolongs or multiplies ! 

XXXIX. 

CHURCH TO HE ERECTED. 

PjE this the chosen site ; the virgin sod, 
IM( istened from age to age by dewy eve, 
Sh.all disappear, and grateful earth receive 
The corner-stone from hands that build to 

God. 
Von reverend hawthorns, hardened to thi, 

rod 
Of winter storms, yet budding cheerfully; 
Those forest oaks of Druid memory, 
Shall long survive, to shelter the Abode 
Of genuine Faith. Where, haply, 'mid this 

band 



33o 



rO.<MS OF THE IMACrNATlON'. 



Of daisies, shepherds sate of yore and wove 
May-,!:^arlands, there let the holy altar stand 
F<jr kneclinsj; adoration ; — while — above, 
IJroocIs, visibly portrayed, the mystic Dove, 
'J'hat shall protect from blasphemy the 
Land. 

XL. 

CONTINUED. 

MiNF, car has rung, my spirit srnk sub- 
dued, 
!; ''ariu'^ tlie strong emotion of the crowd, 
\\ lien rich pale brow to dread hosannas 

bowed 
^Vhile clouds of incense mounting veiled the 

rood, 
T'lat c;limmcred like a pine-tree dimly viewed 
'I'iuougli Alpine vapors. Such appalling 

rite 
Our Church piepares not, trusting to the 

might 
Of simple truth with grace divine imbued ; 
Yet will we not conceal the precious Cross, 
Like men ashamed : the Sun with his first 

smile 
Shall greet that symbol crowning the low 

Pile : . . . 

And the fresh air of incense-breathing morn 
Shall wooingly embrace it ; and green moss 
Creep round its arms through centiries un- 
born. 

XLI. 
NEW CHURCH-YARD. 

The encircling ground, in native turf ar- 
rayed, 
Is nov/ by solemn consecration given 
To social interests, and to favoring Heaven, 
And where the rugged colts their gambols 

played, 
And wild cljer bounded through the forest 

glade, 
Unchecked as when by merry Outlaw driven, 
Shall hymns of praise resound at morn and 

even ; 
And soon, full soon, the lonely Sexton's 

spade 
Shall wound the tender sod. Encincture 

small, 
But infinite its grasp of weal and woe! 
Hopes, fears, in never-ending ebb and 

flow ; — 
The spousal trembling, and the " dust to 

dust," 
The prayers, the contrite struggle, and the 

trust 
That to the Almighty Father looks through 



CATHEDRALS. 

Open your gates, ye everlasting Piles ! 
Types of the spiritual Church which God 

hath reared ; 
Not loth we quit the newly-hallowed sward 
And humble altar, 'mid your sumptuous 

aisles 
To kneel, or thrid your intricate defiles. 
Or down the nave to pace in motion slow 
Watching, with upward eye, the tall tower 

grow 
And mount, at every step, with living wiles 
Instinct — to rouse the heart and lead the 

will 
P.y a bright ladder to the world above. 
Open your gates, ye Monuments of love 
Divine! thou Lincoln, on tiiy sovereign hill! 
Thou, stately York ! and Ye, whose splen- 
dors cheer 
Isis and Cam, to patient Science dear ! 



INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, 
CAMBRIDGE. 

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, 
With ill-matched aims the Architect who 

planned — 
Albeit laboring for a scanty band 
Of white*-robed Scholars only — this immense 
And glorious Work of fine intelligence ! 
Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects 

the lore 
Of nicel3'-calculated less or more ; 
So deemed the man who fashioned for the 

sense 
These lofty pillars, spread that branching 

roof 
Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand 

cells, 
Where light and shade repose, where music 

dwells 
Lingering — and wandering on as loth to 

dief 
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeltj 

proof 
That they wore born for immortality. ; 

XLIV. 
THE SAME. 

What awful perspective! while from our 

sight 
With gradual gteaUb the lateral yvipdovTi 

hide 



i 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



381 



Their Portraitures, their stone-work glim- 
mers, dyed 
In the soft checkerings of a sleepy light. 
Martyr, or King, or sainted Eremite, 
Whoe'er ye be, that thus, yourselves unseen, 
imbue yGi:r prison-bars with solemn sheen, 
?lune on, until ye fade with coming Night ! — 
But, from the arms of silence — list 1 O list ! 
i he music bursteth into second lite ; 
I'he notes luxuriate, every stone is kissed 
By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife ; 
Heart-thrilling strains, that cast, before the 

eye 
Of the devout, a veil of ecstasy ! 



CONTINUED. 

'aHKY dreamt not of a perishable home 

W ho thus could build. Be mine, in hours 

of fear 
Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here ; 
(). tlirough the aisles of Westminster to 

roam ; 
Where bubbles burst, and folly's dancing 

foam 
. Iclts, if it cross the threshold ; where the 

wreath 
Of awe-struck wisdom droops : or let my 

path 
Lead to that younger Pile, whose sky-like 

dome 
ITath typified by reach of daring art 
Infinity's embrace; whose guardian crest, 
'i'he silent Cross, among the stars shall 

spread 
As now, when She hath also seen her breast 
Tilled with mementos, satiate with its part 
( )f grateful England's overHovving Dead. 

XLVI. 
EJACULATION. 

Oi (.RY to God ! and to the Power wlio came 



tilal duty, clothed with love divine, 



That made his human tabernacle shine 
Like Ocean burning with purpureal flame ; 
Or like the Alpine Mount that takes its 

name 
From roseate hues, far kenned at morn and 

even, 
In hours of peace, or when the storm la 

driven 
Along the nether region's rucged frame \ 
Earth prompts — Heaven urges ; let us seek 

the liglit, 
Studious of that pure intercourse l^egun 
When first our infant brows their lustre won ; 
So, like the Mountain, may we grow more 

bright 
From unimpeded comnierce with the Sun, 
At the approach of all-involving ni^^ht. 

XLVII. 

CONCLUSION. 

Why sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled. 
Coil within coil, at noon-tide? For the 

Word 
Yields, if with unpresumptuous faith ex- 
plored, 
Power at whose touch the sluggard shall 

unfold 
His drowsy rings. Look foith! — that 

Stream behold. 
That Stream upon whose bosom we have 

passed 
Floating at ease while nations liave effaced 
Nations, and Death has gathered to his fold 
Long lines of mighty Kings— look forth, my 

Soul I 
(Nor in this vision be thou slow to trusts 
'i'he living Waters, less and less by guiit 
Stained and polluted, brighten as they roll, 
Till they have reached the eternal (;ity--. 

built 
For the perfected Spirits of the just I 



382 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS. 

COMPOSED (two excepted) DURING A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, AND ON 
THE ENGLISH BORDER, IN THE AUTUMN OF 183I. 



SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ., 



AS A TESTIMONY OF FRIENDSHIP, AND ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF INTELLECTUA| 
OBLIGATIONS, THESE MEMORIALS ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 



Rydai. Mount, Dec. 



1834. 



I. 

'The following Stanzas are a memorial of a day 
passed with Sir Waiter Scott, and other 
P'riends visiting the P.anks of the Yanow 
under his guidance, immediately before his 
departure from Abbotsford, for Naples. 

Tlie title Yarro^v Rei'isiied will stand in 
no need of explanation for Readers ac- 
quainted with the Author's previous poems 
suggested by tliat celebrated Stream.] 

The gallant Yoiitli, who may have gained, 

Or seeks, a " winsome Marrow," 
Was but an Infant in the lap 

Wlien first I looked on Yarrow ; 
Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate 

Lon^ left without a warder, 
''. stood, looked, listened, and with Thee, 

Great Minstrel of the Border! 



Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet 
day, 

Their dignity installing 
'n gentle bosoms, whiiC sere leaves 

Were on the bough, or falling ; 
But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed — 

'l"ie forest to embolden ; 
Reddened the fiery hues, and shot 

Transparence through the golden. 

For busy thoughts the stream flowed on 

In foamy agitation ; 
And slept in many a crystal pool 

For quiet contemplation : 



No public and no private care 
The freeborn mind enthralling, 

We made a day of happy hours, 
Our liaijpy days recalling. 

Brisk Youth appeared, the morn of youth 

With freaks of graceful folly,— 
Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve, 

Her Night not melancholy ; 
Past, present, future, all appeared 

In harmony united. 
Like guests that meet, and some from fai 

By cordial love invited. 

And if, as Yarrow, through the woous 

And down the meadow ranging. 
Did meet us with unaltered face, 

Though we were changed and changing 
If, iJieit^ some natural shadows spread 

Our inward prospect over. 
The soul's deep valley was not slow 

Its brightness to recover. 

Eternal blessings on the Muse, 

And her divine employment ! 
The blameless Muse, v/ho trains her Sons 

For hope and calm enjoyment ; 
Albeit sickness, lingering yet. 

Has o'er their pillow brooded ; 
And Care waylays their steps — a Sprite 

Not easily eluded. 
For thee, O Scott! compelled to chang« 

Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot 
Fcr warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes J 
And leave thy Tweed and Teviot 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



38J 



For mild Sorrento's breezy waves ; 

May class'c Fancy, linking 
With native Fancy h, r fresh aid, 
Preserve thy heart f' om sinking ! 

! while they minister to thee, 

Each vying with the other, 
May Health return to mellow Age 

With strength her venturous brother; 
And Tiber, and each brook and rill 

Renowned in song and story, 
With unimagined beauty shine, 

Nor lose one ray of glory I 

For Thou, upon a hundred streams, 

By tales of love and sorrow, 
Of faithful love, undaunted truth, 

Hast shed the power of Yarrow ; 
And streams unknown, hills yet unseen, 

Wherever they invite Thee, 
At parent Nature's grateful call. 

With gladness must requite Thee. 

A gracious welcome shall be thine 

Such looks of love and honor 
As thy own Yarrow gave to me 

When first I gazed upon her; 
Beheld what I had feared to see. 

Unwilling to surrender 
Dreams treasured up from early days, 

The holy and the tender. 

And what, for this frail world, were all 

That mortals do or suffer, 
Did no responsive harp, no pen, 

Memorial tribute offer? 
Yea, what were mighty Nature's self? 

Her features, could they win us, 
Unhelped by the poetic voice 

That hourly speaks within us ? 

Nor deem that localized Romance 

I'lays false with our affections ; 
Unsanctifies our tears — made sport 

For fanciful dejections : 
Oh, no ! the visions of the past 

Sustain tlie heart in feeling 
Life as she is — our changeful Life, 

With friends and kindred dealing. 

Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day 

In Yarrow's groves were centred , 
Who through the silent portal arch 

Of mouldering Newark enter'd ; 
And clomb the winding stair that once 

Too timidly was mounted 
By the " last Minstrel," (not the last 1) 

Ere he is Tale recounted. 



Flow on forever, Yarrow Stream ! 

F"ulfil thy pensive duty, 
Well pleased that future Bards should chant 

For simple hearts thy beauty ; 
To dream-light dear while yet unseen, 

Dear to the common sunshine, 
And dearer still, as now I feel, 

To memory's shadowy moona' me I 



ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER 
SCOTT FROM ABEOTSFORD, FOR NA- 
PLES. 

A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping 

rain, 
Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light 
L^ngendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple 

height : 
Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain 
For kindred Power departing from their 

sight ; 
While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a 

blithe strain, 
Saddens his voice again, and yet again. 
Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners ! for 

the might 
Of the whole world's good wishes with him 

goes ; 
Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue 
Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror 

knows, 
F'ollow this wondrous Potentate. Be true, 
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea, 
Wafting your Charge to soft J^irthenope I 



III. 



A PLACE OF BURIAL IN THE SOUTH OF 
SCOTLAND. 

Part fenced by man, part by a rugged 

steep 
That curbs a foaming brook, a Grave-yard 

lies; 
The hare's best couching-place for fearless 

sleep ; 
Which moonlit elves, far seen by credulous 

eyes. 
Enter in dance. Of church, or sabbath ties, 
No vestige now remains; yet thither creep 
Bereft ones, and in lowly anguish weep 
Their prayers out to the wind and naked 

skies. 



384 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Proud tomb is none ; but rudely -sculptured 

knights, 
By humble choice of plain old times, arc 

seen 
Level with earth, among the hillocks green: 
Union not sad, when sunny daybreak smites 
The spangled turf, and neighboring thickets 

ring 
V^\i\\ jubilate from the choirs of spring! 



ON THE SIGHT OF A MANSE IN THE 
SOUTH OF SCOTLAND. 

Say, ye far-travelled clouds, far-seeing 

hills— 
Among the happiest-looking homes of men 
Scatter'd all Britain over, through deep 

glen, 
On airy upland, and by forest rills. 
And o'er wide plains cheered by the lark 

that trills 
His sky-born vvarblings — does aught meet 

your ken 
More fit to animate the Poet's pen, 
Aught that more surely by its aspect fills 
Pure minds with sinless envy, than the 

Abode 
Of the good Priest ? who, faithful through 

all hours 
To his high charge, and truly r,erving God, 
lias yet a heart and hand for trees and 

flowers. 
Enjoys the walks his prerlecessors trod, 
Nor covets lineal rights '.n lands and towers. 



COMPOSED IN ROSLIN CHAPEL, DURING 
A STORM. 

The wind is now thy organist ; — a clank 
(We know not whence) ministers for a bell 
To mark some change of service. As the 

swell 
Of music reached its height, and even when 

sank 
The notes in prelude, Roslin ! to a blank 
Of silence, how it thrilled thy sumptuous 

roof. 
Pillars, and arches, — not in vain time-proof. 
Though Christian rites be wanting ! From 

what bank 
Came these live herbs? by what hand were 

they sown 
Where dew f;,lls not, where rain-drops seem 

unknown .^ 
Yet in the Temple they a friendly niche 



Share with their sculptured fellows, that. 

green-grown. 
Copy their beauty more and more, and 

preach. 
Though mute, of all things blending into 

one. 

VI. 
THE TROSACHS. 

There's not a nook within this solemn 

Pass, 
But were an apt confessional for One 
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn 

gone. 
That Life is but a tale of morning grass 
Withered at Eve. From scenes of art 

which chas-e 
That thought away, turn, and with watch 

ful eyes 
Feed it mid Nature's old felicities. 
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more deal 

than glass 
Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice 

happy quest, 
If from a golden perch of aspen si>ray 
(October's workmanship to rival May) 
The Pensive warbler of the ruddy breast 
I'hat moral sweeten by a heaveii-taught 

lay, 
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest 

VII. 

The pibroch's note, discountenanced or 

mute ; 
The Roman kilt, degraded to a toy 
Of quaint apparel for a half-spoilt boy ; 
The target mouldering like ungathered 

fruit; 
The smoking steam-boat eager in pursuit, 
As eagerly pursued ; the umbrella spread 
To weather-fend the Celtic herdsman's 

head — [root. 

All speak of manners withering to the 
And of old honors, too, and passions higii : 
Then may we ask, though pleased that 

thought should range 
Among the conquests of civility. 
Survives imagination— to the change 
Superior ? Help to virtue does she give ? 
If not, O Mortals, better cease to live I 

VIII. 
COMPOSED IN the GLEN OF LOCH ETIVK, 

"This Land of Rainbows spanning glens 

whose walls. 
Rock-built, are hung with rainbow-colored 

mists — 



POEMS OF THE IMAGTNAriON. 



355 



Of far-stretched Meres whose salt flood 

never rests — 
Of tuneful Caves and playful Waterfalls — 
Of Mountains varying momently their 

crests — 
Proud be this Land ! whose poorest huts 

are halls 
Where Fancy entertains becoming guests ; 
While native song the heroic Past recalls." 
Thus, in the net of her own wishes caught, 
The Muse exclaimed ; but Story now must 

hide 
Her trophies, Fancy crouch ; the course of 

pride 
Has been diverted, other lessons taught. 
That make tlie Patriot-spirit l)ow her head 
Where tiic all-conquering Roman feared to 

tread. 

IX. 

EAGLES.— COMPOSED AT DUNOLLIE CAS- 
TLE IN THE BAY Ol'- OBAN. 

Dishonored Rock and Ruin! that, by 

law 
Tyrannic, keep the Bird of Jove embarred 
Like a lone criminal whose life is spared. 
Vexed is he, and screams loud. Tiie last 

I saw 
Was on the wing ; stooping, he struck with 

awe 
Man, bird, and beast ; then, with a consort 

paired, 
From a bold headland, their loved aery's 

guard, 
Flew high above Atlantic waves to draw 
Light from the fountain of the setting sun. 
Such was this Prisoner once; and,' when 

his plumes 
The sea-blast ruffles as the storm comes on. 
Then, for a moment, he, in spirit, resumes 
His rank 'mong freeborn creatures that live 

free. 
His power, his beauty, and his majesty. 



IX THE SOUND OF MULL. 

Tradition, be thou mute ! Oblivion, 

throw 
Thy veil in mercy o'er the records, hung 
Round stratli and mountain, stamped bv 

the ancient tongue 
On rock and ruin darkening as we go, — 
Spots where a word, ghost like, survives to 

show 
What crimes from hate, or desperate love, 

hive sprung : 



From honor misconceived, or fancied 

wrong, 

What feuds, not quenched but fed by mu- 
tual woe. 

Yet, though a wild vindictive Race, un- 
tamed 

By civil arts and labors of the pen. 

Could gentleness be scorned by those fiera 
Men, 

Who, to spread wide the reverence they 
claimed 

For patriarchal occupations, named 

Yon towering Peaks, " Shepherds of Etivc 
Glen .? » * 



SUGGESTED AT TYNDRUM IN A STORM. 

ExouGH of garlands, of the Arcadian 

crook, 
And all that Greece and Italy have sung 
Of Swains reposing myrtle groves among ! 
Ours couch on naked rocks,— will cross a 

brook 
Swoln with chill rains, nor ever cast a look 
Tliis way or that, or give it even a thought 
More than by smoothest pathway may be 

brought 
Into a vacant mind. Can written book 
Teach what they learn ? Up, hardy Moun- 
taineer ! 
And guide the Bard, ambitious to be One 
Of Nature's privy council, as thou ar*-. 
On cloud-sequestered heights, that see and 

hear 
To what dread powers He delegates his 

part 
On earth, who works in the heaven of 

heavens, alone. 



THE EARL OF RREADALBANE's RUINED 
MANSION, AND FAMILY BURIAL-I'LACE, 
NEAR KILLIN. 

Well sang the Bard who called the grave, 
m strains 

Thoughtful and sad, the " narrow house." 
No style 

Of fond sepulchral flattery can beguile 

Grief of her sting ; nor cheat, where he de 
tains 

The sleeping dust, stern Death. How rec- 
oncile 

With truth, or with each other, decked re- 
mains 

Of a once warm Abode, and tliat new Pile 



lu Gaelic, Buachaill Eiic, 



386 



POEMS OF THE lAf AG LY AT/OAT. 



For the departed, built with curious pains, 
And niausolean pomp ? Yet here they 

stand 
Together, — 'mid trim w,alks and artful 

bowers. 
To be looked down upon by ancient hills, 
That, for the living and the dead, demand 
And prompt a harmony of genuine powers; 
Concord that elevates the mind, and stills. 

XIII. 

"rest and be thankful." — AT THE 
HEAD OK GLENCROE. 

DouHLTNG and doubling with laborious 

walk, 
Wlio, that has gained at length the wished- 

for Height, 
This brief, this simple way-side Call can 

slight. 
And rests not thankful ? Whether cheered 

by talk 
With some loved friend, or by the unseen 

liawk 
Whistling to clouds and sky-born streams, 

that shine 
At tlie sun's outbreak^ as with light divine, 
Ere they descend to nourish root and stalk 
Of valley flowers. Nor, while the limbs re- 
pose, 
Will we forget that, as the fowl can keep 
Absolute stillness, poised aloft in air, 
And fishes front, unmoved, the torrent's 

sweep, — 
So may the Soul, through powers that 

Faith bestows. 
Win rest, and ease, and peace, with bliss 

that Angels share. 



HIGHLAND HUT. 

See what gay wild flowers deck this earth- 
built Cot, 

Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and how 
it may. 

Shines in tlie greeting of the sun's first ray 

Like wreaths of vapor without stain or 
blot. 

The limpid mountain rill avoids it not ; 

And why shouldst thou? — If rightly trained 
and bred. 

Humanity is humble, finds no spot 

Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to 
tread. 

The walls arp -.racked, sunk is the flowery 

XOQf, 



Undressed the pathway leading to the door; 
Hut love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor; 
Search, for their worth, sonic gentle heart 

wrong-proof, 
Meek, patient, kind, and, were its trials 

fewer. 
Belike less happy. — Stand no more aloof 1 



THE HIGHLAND BROACH. 

The exact resemblance which the old Bioach 
(still ill use, though rarely met with, among 
the Highlanders) bears to llie Roman Fibula 
nuist strike every one, and concurs, witli the 
plaid and kilt, to recall to mind tlie com- 
munication which the ancient Romans had 
with this remote country. 

If to Tradition faith be due, 

And echoes from old verse speak true, 

Ere the meek Saint, Columba, bore 

Glad tidings to lona's shore, 

No common light of nature blessed 

The mountain region of the west, 

A land where gentle manners ruled 

O'er men in dauntless virtues schooled, 

That raised, for centuries, a bar 

Impervious to the tide of war : 

Yet peaceful Arts did entrance gain 

Where haughty Force had striven in vain ) 

And, 'mid the works of skilful hands, 

]5y wanderers brought from foreign lands 

And various climes, was not unknown 

The clasp that fixed the Roman Gown ; 

The Fibula, whose shape, I ween, 

Still in the Higfiland Broach is seen, 

The silver Broach of massy frame. 

Worn at the breast of some grave Dame 

On road or path, or at the door 

Of fern-thatched hut on heathy moor : 

But delicate of yore its mould. 

And the material finest gold ; 

As might beseem the fairest Fair, 

Whetiier she graced a royal c hair, 

Or shed, within a vaulted hall. 

No fancied lustre on the wall 

Where shields of mighty heroes lu;n;j, 

While Fingal heard what Ossian sung. 

The heroic Age expired — it slept 
Dpcp in its tomb : — the bramble crept 
Ox-v Fingal's hearth ; the grassy sod 
Grew on the fioors his sons had trod ; 
Malvina ! where art thou ? Their state 
The nobiost-born must abdicate j 



POEMS or THE IMACIKATION. 



387 



The fairest, while with fire and sword 
Come Spoilers — horde iini)clling horde, 
Must walk the sorrowing mountains, drest 
liy ruder hands in homelier vest. 
Yet still the female bosom lent, 
And loved to borrow, ornament ; 
Still was its inner world a place 
Reached by the dews of heavenly grace ; 
Still pity to this last retreat 
Clove fondly ; to his favorite seat 
Love wound his way by soft apjiroach. 
Beneath a massier Highland Broach. 

When alternations came of rage 

Yet fiercer, in a darker age ; 

And feuds, where, clan encountering clan, 

The weaker perished to a man ; 

For maid and motiicr, when despair 

Might el >e have triumphed, baftling prayer, 

One small possession lacked not power, 

Provided in a calmer hour. 

To meet such need as might befall— 

Roof, raiment, bread, or burial : 

For woman, even of tears bereft, 

The hidden silver Broach was left. 

As generations come and go 
Their arts, tlicir customs, ebb and flow ; 
Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, 
And feeble, of themselves, decay ; 
What poor abodes the heir-loom hide, 
In which the castle once took jirido ! 
Tokens, once kept as boasted wealth, 
If savecl at all, are saved by stealth. 
Lo ! ships, from seas by nature barred, 
Mount along ways by man prcjiared ; 
And in far-stretciiing vales, whose streams 
Seek other seas, their canvas gleams. 

Lo ! busy towns spring up, on coasts 
Thronged yesterday by airy gliosis ; 
Soon, like a lingering star forlorn 
Among the novelties of morn, 
While young delights on old encroach. 
Will vanish the last Highland Broach. 

But when, from out their viewless bed. 
Like vapors, years have rolled and spread*-; 
And this poor verse, and worthier lays, 
Shall yield no light of love or praise ; 
Then, by the spade, or cleaving plough, 
Or torrent from the mountain's brow. 
Or whirlwind, reckless what his mij) 
Entombs, or forces into light ; 
Blind Chance, a volunteer ally. 
That oft befriends Antiquity. 



And clears Oblivion frona reproach, 
May render back the Highland Broac! 



THE BROWNIE, 
Upon a small isiaiid not far from the heac. of 
Locli Lomond, aie some remains of an 
ancient builchng, wliieli was for several years 
llic abode of a solitary Iiulividiial, one of the 
last survivors of the clan of Macfarlane.oiice 
];owerful in that iieij.'liborliood. I'assinv; 
along tiic shore opposite this island in t!;p: 
year 1S14, tiie Author Icariicd these )!articn- 
lars, and that this person then livnig there li.u! 
acquired the appellation of "'riie Brownie." 
See " The Brownie's Cell," p. 265, to wli th 
the following is a sequel. 

" IIow disappeared he.'"' Ask the newt 

and toad ; 
Ask of his fellow men, and they will tell 
How he was found, cold as an icicle, 
Under an arch of that forlorn abode ; 
Where he, unpropp'd^ and by the gathering 

flood 
Of years hcmm'd round, had dwelt, pre- 
pared to try 
Privation's worst extremities, and die 
With no one near save the omnipresent God 
\''crily so to live was an awful choice — 
A choice that wears the aspect of a doom ; 
But in the mould of mercy all is cast 
I'or Souls familiar with the eternal Voice ; 
And this forgotten Taper to the last 
Drove from itself, we trust, all frightful 
gloom. 

XVII. 

TO THE PLANET VENUS, AN EVENING 

STAR. 

COMPOSED AT I.OCH LOIMONU. 

Though jny attend Thee orient at the 

birth 
Of dawn, it cheers the lofty spirit most 
To watcli thy course when Day-light, fled 

from earth. 



* How much the Broach is sometimes prized 
l)y persons in humble stations may be gatliered 
from an occurrence mentioned to me by a female 
friend. She liad had an opportunity of bene- 
fiting a poor old woman in her own luit, who, 
wishing to make a return, said to her daughter, 
in Erse, in a tone of plaintive earnestness, " I 
would >cive anytiiing 1 have, but I //£7/t" siie does 
not wish for my Broach! " and, uttering these 
words, slie put her h.tnd upon the Broach which 
fastened her kerchief, and wlncli, slie imagined, 
had attracted the eye of her benefactress. 



38S 



POEMS OF THE lAfAGfNATlON. 



In the gray sky hath left his hngering 

Ghost, 
Perplexed as if between a splendor lost 
And splendor slowly mustering. Since the 

Sun, 
The absolute, the world-absorbing One, 
Relinquished half his empire to the host 
Emboldened by tiiy guidance, lioly Star, 
Holy as princely, who that looks on thee 
Touching, as now, in thy humility 
The mountain borders of this seat of care, 
Can question that thy countenance is bright, 
Celestial Power, as much with love as light? 



BOTHWELL CASTLE. 

frASSEI) UNSEEN ON ACCOUNT OF S fORMY 
WEATHER.) 

Immured in Bothwell's towers, at times 

the Brave 
(So beautiful is Clyde) forgot to mourn 
The liberty they lost at Bannockburn. 
Once on those steeps / roamed at large, and 

have 
In mmd the landscape, as if still in sight ; 
'J'he river glides, the woods before me wave ; 
Then why repine that now in vain I crave 
Needless renewal of an old delight t 
Better to thank a dear and long-past day 
For joy its sunny hours were free to give 
Than blame the present, that our wish hath 

crost. 
Memory, like sleep, hath powers which 

dreams obey, 
Dreams, vivid dreams, that are not fugitive : 
How little that she cherishes is lost ! 

XIX. 

riCTURE OF DANIEL IN THE LION's DEN, 
AT HAMILTON PALACE. 

Amid h fertile region green with wood 
And fresh with rivers, well did it become 
The ducal Owner, in his palace-home 
To naturalize this tawny Lion brood ; 
Children of Art, that claim strange brother- 

iiood 
iCouched in their den) with those that roam 

at large 
Over the burning wilderness, and charge 
The wind with terror while they roar for 

food. 
Satiate are these , and stilled to eye and 

ear; 



Hence, while we gaze, a more enduring 

fear! 
Yet is the Prophet calm, nor would the cave 
Daunt him — if his Companions, now be* 

drowsed 
Outstretched and listless, were by hunger 

roused ; 
Man jilaced him here, and God, he knows^ 

;;m save. 

XX. 

THE AVON. 
(A FEEDER OF THE ANNAN.) 

Avon — a precious, an immortal name ! 

Yet is it one that other rivulets bear 

Like this unheard-of, and their channels 

wear 
Like this contented, though unknown to 

Fame : 
For great and sacred is the modest claim 
Of Streams to Nature's love, where'er they 

flow : 
And ne'er did Genius slight them, as they 

go. 
Tree, flower, and green herb, feeding with- 
out blame. 
But Praise can waste her voice on work of 

tears. 
Anguish, and death: full oft where innocent 

blood 
Has mixed its current with the limpid flood, 
Her heaven -offending trophies Glory rears: 
Never for like distinction may the good 
Slu-ink from tJiy name, pure Rill, with un- 

pl eased ears. 

XXI. 

SUGGESTED BY A VIEW FROM AN EMI- 
NENCE IN INGLEWOOD FOREST. 

The forest huge of ancient Calcdon 

Is but a name, no more is Inglewood, 

Tliat swept from Iiill to hill, from flood to 
flood • 

On her last thorn the nightly moon h.\s 
shone : 

Yet still, though unappropriate Wild be 
none, 

Fair parks spread wide where Adam Bell 
might deign 

With Clym o' the Clough, were they ali(^e 
again. 

To kill for merry feast their venison. 

Nor wants the holy Abbot's gliding Shade 

His church with monumental wreck be- 
strewn ; 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



3S9 



The feudal Warrior-chief, a Ghost unlaid, 
Hath still his castle, though a skeleton, 
Tliat he may watch by night, and lessons 

con 
Of power that perishes, and rights that fade. 



HART'S-HORN tree, near PENRITH. 

Here stood an Oak, that long had borne 

affixed 
To his huge trunk, or, with more subtle art. 
Among its withering topmost brandies 

mixed, 
The palmy antlers of a hunted Hart, 
Whom the Dog Hercules pursued — his part 
Each desperately sustaining, till at last 
Both sank and died, the life veins of the 

chased 
And chaser bursting here with one dire 

smart. 
Mutual the victory, mutual the defeat ! 
High was tii-e trophy hung with pitiless 

pride ; 
Sav, rather, with that generous sympathy 
That wants i;ot, even in rudest breasts, a 

scat ; 
And, for this feeling's sake, let no one chide 
Verse that wculd euard thy memory, Hart's- 

HOKN Tree ! 



fancy AXn TRADITION. 

The Lovers took within this ancient grove 
Their last embrace ; beside those crystal 

springs 
The Hermit saw the Angel spread his v/ings 
For instant flight ; the sage in yon alcove 
.Sate musing , on that hill the Bard would 

rove, 
Not mute, where now the linnet only sings : 
Thus everywhere to truth Tradition clings. 
Or Fancy localizes Powers we love. 
Were only History licensed to take note 
Of things gone by, her meagre monuments 
Would ill suffice for persons and events : 
There is an ampler page for man to cpiote, 
A readier bcxjk of manifold contents, 
Studied alike in palace and in cot. 

XXIV. 

countess' pillar. 

[On tile roailside between Penrith and Appleby, 
there stands a pillar with the following in- 
scription : — 
" This pillar was erected, iu the year 1656, 



by Anne Countess Dowager of Pembroke, 
&c., for a memorial of her last parting with 
lier pious mother, Margaret Countess Dow- 
ager nf Cumberland, on tlie 2d of April, 1616: 
in memory whereof she hath left an aiuiuity 
of 4/. to be distributed to the poor of the 
parish of Brougiiam, every 2d day of A|Til 
forever, upon the stone table placed hard by 
Laus Deo! "] 

While the Poor gather round, till the end 

of time 
May this bright flower of Charity display 
Its bloom, unfolding at the appointed day ; 
Flower than the loveliest of the vernal primu 
Lovelier — transplanted from heaven's purest 

clime ! 
" Charity never faileth : " on that creed, 
More than on written testament or deed. 
The pious Lady built with hope sublime. 
Alms on this stone to be dealt owi^forcver ! 
" Laus Deo." Many a Stranger passing 

by 
Has with that Parting mixed a filial sigh, 
Blest its humane Memorial's fond endeavor ; 
And, fastening on those lines an eye tear- 
glazed. 
Has ended, though no Clerk, with " God be 
praised ! " 

XXV. 

ROMAN ANTIQUITIES. 

(from the ROMAN STATION AT OLI> 

PENRITH.) 

How profitless the relics that wc cull, 
Troubling the last holds of ambitious Romt,, 
Unless tiiey chasten fancies tliat presume 
Too high, or idle agitations lull ! 
Of the world's flatteries if the brain be full, 
To have no seat for thought were betta 

doom, 
Like this old helmet, or the eyeless skull 
Of liim who gloried in its nodding i)lume. 
Heaven out of view, our wishes what ar« 

they ? 
Our fond regrets tenacious in their grasp ? 
The Sage's theory ? the Poet's lay .? — 
Merc Fibuhe without a robe to clasp ; 
Obsolete lamps, whose light no time recalls; 
Urns without ashes, tearless lacrymals 



XXVI. 

APOLOGY 

FOR THE FOREGOING POEMS 

No more : the end is sudden and abrupt, 
Abrupt — as without preconceived design 
Was the beginning ; yet the several Laj's 



390 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Have moved in order, to each other bound 
By a contniuous and acknowledged tie 
Thougli unapparent — hke those Shapes dis- 
tinct 
That yet survive ensculptured on the walls 
Of palaces, or temples, 'mid the wreck 
Of famed Persepolis ; each following each, 
As might beseem a stately embassy, 
In set array ; these bearing in their hands 
Knsign of civil power, weapon of war, 
Or gift to be presented at the throne 
Of the Great King ; and others, as they go 
In priestly vest, with holy offerings charged, 
Or leading victims drest for sacrifice. 
Nor will the Power we serve, that sacred 

I'ower, 
The Spirit of humanity, disdain 
A ministration humble but sincere, 
That from a tiireshold loved by every Muse 
Its impulse took — tiiat sorrow-stricken door, 
Whence, as a current from its fountain-head, 



Our thoughts have issued, and our feelings 

flowed. 
Receiving, willingly or not, fresh strength 
From kindred sources ; while around us 

sighed 
(Life's three first seasons having passed 

away) 
Leaf-scattering w^inds ; and hoar-frost sprink° 

lings fell 
(Foretaste of winter) on the moorland 

heip,hts ; 
And every day brought with it ti'.iings new 
Of rash change, ominous for the public 

weal. 
Hence, if dejection has too oft encroached 
Upon that sweet and tender melancholy 
Which may itself be cherished and caressed 
More than enough ; a fault so natural 
(Even with the young, the hopeful, or the 

gay) 
For prompt forgiveness will not sue in vain- 



EVENING VOLUNTARIES. 



I, 

*^ Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose 
Day's grateful warmth, tho' moist with fall- 
ing dews. 
Lool: f(jr the stars, you'll say that there are 

none ; 
Look up a second time, and, one by one, 
You mark them twinkling out with silvery 

light, 
And wonder how they could elude the sight ! 
The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers, 
Warbled awhile with faint and fainter 

powers. 
But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers : 
Nor does the village Church-clock's iron 

tone 
The time's and season's influence disown : 
Nine beats distinctly to each other bound 
In drowsy sequence — how unlike the sound 
That, in rougli winter, oft inflicts a fear 
On fireside listeners, doubting what they 

hear ! 
The shepherd, bent on rising with the sun, 
Had closed his door before the day was 

done, 
And now with thankful heart to bed doth 

creep. 
And joins his little children in their sleep. 



The bat, lured forth where trees the lane 

o'ershade, 
Flits and reflits along the close arcade ; 
The busy dor-hawk chases the white moth 
With burring note, which Industry and 

Sloth [both. 

Might both be pleased with, for it suits them 
A stream is heard — 1 see it not, but knovv 
By its soft music whence the waters flow : 
Wheels and the tread of hoofs are heard no 

more ; [shore 

One boat there was, but it will touch the 
With the next dipping of its slackened oar ; 
Faint sound, that, for the gayest of the gay, 
Might give to serious thought a moment's 

sway, 
As a last token of man's toilsome day 1 
1832. 



ON A HIGH PART OF THE COAST OF CUJ» 
liERLAND. 

Easter Sunday, April 7. 

THE author's sixty-third lilRTH-DAY 

The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire, 
Flung back from distant climes a streaming 
fire, 



POEMS OF 77/ F. IMAGINATION. 



39^^ 



Whose blaze is now subdued to tender 

gleams, 
Prelude of night's approach with soothing 

dreams. 
Look round ;■ — of all the clouds not one is 

moving ; 
"ris the still hour of thinking, feeling, lov- 

Silent, and steadfast as the vaulted sky, 
The haundless plain of waters seems to 

lie :— 
Comes that low sound from breezes rustling 

o'er 
The grass-crowned headland that conceals 

the shore ? 
Nq ;^tj^s the earth voice of the mighty sea, 
Whispering how meek and gentle he can be ! 

Thou Tower supreme ! who, arming to 

rebuke 
Offenders, dost put off tlie gracious look. 
And ckthe thyself with terrors like the 

flood 
Of ocean roused into his fiercest mood, 
Whatever discipline thy Will ordain 
Fot^the brief course that must for me 

remain ; 
Teach n-.e with quick-eared spirit to rejoice 
In admonitions of thy softest voice ! 
\yhate'er the path these mortal feet may 

trace, 
Breathe tlirough my soul the blessing of thy 

gi-ase. 
Glad, through a perfect love, a faith sincere 
Drawn from the wisdom that begins with 

fear, 
Cdad to expand ; and, for a season, free 
From finite cares, to rest absorbed in Thee! 
iS33- 



r. 



(by the sea-side.) 



The sun is couched, the sca-fcwl gone to 

rest. 
And the wild storm hath somewhere found 

a nest ; > 
Air slumbers — wave with wave no longer 

strives. 
Only a heaving of the deep survives, 
A tell-tale motion ! soon will it be laid, 
And by the tide alone the water swayed. 
Stealthy withdrawmgs, interminglings mild 
Of light with shade in beauty reconciled — 
Sucli is the prospect far as sight can range, 
The soothing recompense, the welcome 

change, 



Where now the ships that (.Irnvc before the 

blast, 
Threatened by angry breakers as they 

passed ; 
And by a train of flying clouds bcmocked; 
Or, in tlie hollow surge, at anchor rocked 
As on a bed of death .-" Some lodge in peacCj 
Saved by His care who bade the tempest 

cease ; 
And some, too heedless of past danger, court 
Fresh gales to waft them to the far-off port ; 
But near, or hanging sea and sky between. 
Not one of all those winged powers is seen. 
Seen in her course, nor 'mid this quiet heard ; 
Yet oil ! how gladly would the air be stirred 
By some acknowledgment of thanks and 

praise, 
.'^oft m its temper as those vcsjier lays 
Sung to the Virgin wiiile accortiant oars 
Urge the slow bark ahjng Calabrian shores; 
A sea-born service through the mountain felt 
Till mto one loved vision all things melt ; 
Or like those hymns that soothe with graver 

sound 
The gulfy coast of Norway iron-bound ; 
.And, from the wide and open Baltic, rise 
With punctual care, Lutherian harmonies. 
Hush, not a voice is here ! but why repine, 
Now when the star of eve comes forth to 

shine 
On British waters with that look benign .' 
Ye mariners, that plough your onward way, 
Or in the haven rest, or sheltering bay. 
May silent than-ks at least to God be given 
With a full heart ; *• our thoughts are heard 

in heaven I '' 

iS33- 

IV. 

Not in the lucid intervals of life 

That come but as a curse to party strife ; 

Not in some hour when Pleasure with a sigh 

Of languor puts his rosy garland bv ; 

Not in the breathing-times of that poor slave 

Who daily piles up wealth in Manmion's 

cave — 
Is Nature felt, or can be ; nor do words. 
Which practised talent readily affords, 
Prove that her hand has touched responsive 

chords ; 
Nor has her gentle beauty power to move 
Witli genuine rapture and vWtli fervent love 
The soul of Genius, if he dare to take 
Life's rule from passion craved for passion's 

sake ; 
Untaught that meekness is tb.e cherished 

bent 
Of all the truly great and all the innocent 



392 



rOEMS OF THE IMAGINATION: 



But who is innocent ? By grace divine, 
Not otherwise, O Nature ! we are ttiine, 
Through good and evil thine, in just dtgree 
Of rational and in.inly synipatliy. 
To all that Earth from pensive hearts is 

stealing, 
And Heaven is now to gladdened eyes re- 
vealing, 
Add every charm the Universe can show 
Through every change its aspects undergo — 
Care may be respited, but not repealed ; 
No perfect cure grows on that bounded field. 
Vain is the pleasuie, a false calm the peace, 
]f He, through whom alone our conflicts 

cease, 
Our virtuous hopes without relapse advance, 
Come not to speed the Soul's deliverance ; 
Tt) the distempered Intellect refuse 
His gracious help, or give what we abuse. 
1834. 



(BY THE SIDE OF RYDAL MERE.) 

TiJE linnet's warble, sinking towards a close, 
Hints to the thrush 'tis time for their repose ; 
The shrill-voiced thrush is heedless, and 

again 
The monitor revives his own sweet strain ; 
But both will soon be mastered, and the 

copse 
Be left as silent as the mountain-tops, 
Ere some commanding star dismiss to rest 
The throng of rooks, that now, from twig 

or nest, 
(After a steady flight on homo-bound wings. 
And a last game of mazy Iiovcrings 
Around their ancient grove) with cawing 

noise 
Disturb the liquid music's equipoise. 

O Nightingale! Who ever henrd thy song 
Might here be moved, till Fancy grows so 

strong 
That listening sense is pardonably cheated 
Where wood or stream by thee was never 

greeted. 
Surely, for fairest spots of favored lands. 
Were not some gifts withheld by jealous 

hands, 
This hour of deepening darkness here would 

be 
As a fresh morning for new harmony ; 
Aiid lavs as prompt would liail the dawn of 

Night : 



A daivn slie has both beautiful and bright, 
When the East kindles with the full moon's 

light, 
Not like the rising sun's impatient glow 
Dazzling the mountains, but an overflow 
Of solemn splendor, 111 mutation slow. 

Wanderer by spring witli gradual progress 

led. 
For sway profoundly felt as widely spread ; 
To king, to peasant, to r(>ugh sailor, dear, 
And to the soldier's trumpet-wearied ear ; 
11 ow welcome wuuldst thou be to this green 

_ Vale 
Fairer ti an Temple ! Vet, sweet Nightingale I 
From the w.«m urceze that bears thee on, 

alight 
At will, and stay thy migratory flight ; 
Build, at thy choice, or sing, by pool or fount 
Who shall complain, or call thee to account ? 
The wisest, happiest, of our kind are they 
That ever walk content with Nature's way, 
God's goodness — measuring bounty as it 

may : 
For whom the gravest thought of what they 

miss, 
Chastening the fulness of a present bliss. 
Is with that wholesome office satisfied, 
While unrepining sadness is allied 
In thankful bosoms to a modest pride. 



Soft as a cloud is yon blue Ridge — the 

Mere 
Seems firm as solid crystal, breathless, clear. 

And motionless; and, to the gazer's eye, 
Deeper than ocean, in the immensity 
Of its vague mountains and unreal sky ! 
I'.ut, from the process in that still retreat. 
Turn to minuter changes at our feet ; 
Observe how dewy Twilight has withdrawn 
The crowd of daisies from the shaven lawn, 
And lias restored to view its tender green, 
That, while the sun rode high, was lost be- 

neatli their da.Tzling sheen. 
— An emblem tliis of wh^t tlie sober Hour 
Can do for minds disposed to feel its power I 
TIius oft. wlien we in vain have wish'd away 
The petty pleasures of the garisli day, 
Meek eve shuts up the whole usurping host 
(Unbashful dwarfs each glittering at hii 

post) 
And leaves the disencumbered spirit free 
To reassuxiit a staid simplicity. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION: 



'Tis well — but what are helps of time and 
place, 
When wisdom stands in need of nature's 

grace ; 
Why do good thoughts, invoked or not, de- 
scend, 
Like Angels from their bowers, our virtues 

to befriend ; 
If yet To-morrow, unbelied, may say, 
" 1 come to open out, tor fresli display, 
The elastic vanities of yesterday ? " 
1834. 



Thk leaves that rusti^uon this oak-crov>'ncd 

hill. 
And sky that danced among those leaves, 

are still ; 
Rest smooths the way for sleep ; in field and 
bower [power 

Soft shades and dews have shed their blended 
On drooping eyelid and the closing flower ; 
Sound is there none at vvhicli the faintest 

heart 
Might leap, the weakest nerve of supersti- 
tion start ; 
Save when the Owlet's imexpectcd scream 
Pierces th.e ethereal vault; and (mid the 

gleam 
Of unsubstantial imagery, the dream. 
From the hushed vale's realities, transferred 
To the still lake) the imaginative Bird 
Seems, 'mid inverted mountains, not un- 
heard. 

Grave Creature ! — whether, while the 

mncn shines briglit 
On thy wings opened wide for smoothest 

flight. 
Thou art discovered in a roofless tower, 
Rising from what may once have been a 

lady's bovver ; 
Or spied where thou sitt'st moping in thy 

mew 
At the dim centre of a churchyard yew ; 
Or, from a rifted crag or ivy tod 
Oeep in a forest, thy secure abode 
Thou giv'st, for pastime's sake, by shriek or 

shout, 
A puzzling notice of thy whereabout — 
May the night never come, nor day be seen, 
Wlien I shall scorn thy voice, or mock thy 

mien ! 
In classic ages men perceived a soul 
Of sapience in thy aspect, iieadl ss ( )wl ! 
Thee Athens rcver«*nced in the studious 

grove } 



And, near the golden sceptre grasped by 

Jove, 
flls Eagle's favorite perch, while round him 

sate 
The Clods revolving the decrees of Fate, 
Thou, too, wert present at Minerva's side :— 
H-jk to that second larum ! — far and wide. 
The elements have heard, and rock and cavc 

replied. 
1S34. 



[Tliis T7upro7nptu appeared, many years ap;o, 
among the Aiithoi's pf)enis, from which, in 
subsequiut eciitious, it was excluded. It is 
repiiiited, at tlie request of tlie Kriend in 
whose presence the lints were rtirown off.] 

The sun has long been set, 

The stars arc out by twos and threes, 
The little birds arc piping yet 

Among the bushes and trees ; 
There's a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes, 
And a far-off wind that rushes, 
And a sound of water that guslics, 
And the cockoo's sovereign cry 
Fills all the hollow of the sky. 

Wiio would " go parading " 
In London, "and masquerading," 
On such a nigiit of Jun-^ 
With that beautiful soft half-moon, 
On all these innocent blisses.'' 
On such a night as this is ! 

1S04. 



COMrOSKD UPON AN F.VKNING CT HX- 
TUAORDINARY SPLENDOR AND UEALHY 



Had this efFulgence disappeared 

With flying haste, I might have sent, 

Among the speechless clouds, a look 

Of blank astonishment ; 

But 'tis endued with power to stay, 

And sanctify one closing day, 

That frail Mortality may see— 

What is ? — ah no, but what can be \ 

Time was when field and watery cove 

With modulated echoes rang, 

While choirs of fervent Angels sang 

Their vespers in the grove ; 

Or, crowning, star-like, each .some sovereign 

height, ^ 
Warbled, for heaven above and earth below. 
Strains suitable to both.— Such holy rite. 



3^4 



POEMS OF THE IMAGTNAT/ON. 



Methinks, if audibly repeated now 

From hill or valley, could not move 

^'ublirner transport, purer love, 

liian doth this silent spectacle— the gleam — 

The shadovi'— and the peace supreme I 

II, 

No sound is uttered, — but a deep 

And solemn harmony prevades 

The hollow vale from steep to steep. 

And penetrates the glades. 

Far-distant images draw nigh, 

Called forth by wondrous potency 

Of beamy radiance, that imbues 

Whate'er it strikes with gem-like hues ! 

In vision exquisitely clear, 

Herds range along the mountain side ; 

And glistening antlers are descried ; 

And gilded flocks appear. 

Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve ! 

But long as godlike wish, or hope divine, 

Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe 

That this magnificence is wholly thine ! 

—From worlds not quickened by the sun 

A portion of the gift is won ; 

An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is 

spread 
On ground which British shepherds tread ! 

III. 
And, if there be whom broken ties 
Afflict, or injuries assail, 
Yon hazy ridges to their eyes 
Present a glorious scale, 
Climbing suffused with sunny air, 
To stop — no record hath told where! 
And tempting Fancy to ascend, 
And with immortal Spirits blend ! 
— Wings at my shoulders seem to play ; 
But, rooted liere, I stand and gaze 
On those bright steps that lieavenward 

raise 
'I'heir practiiabk' way. 
Come forth, ye droojiing old men, look 

abroad, 
And see to what fair countries ye are 

bound I 
And if some traveller, weary of his road. 
Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy 

ground, 
Ve (ienii ! to his covert speed ; 
And w:ke him with such gentle heed 
As may attune his soul to meet the dower 
Bestov/ed on this transcendent hour ! 

IV. 

Such hups from thdr celestial Urn 
Were wont to streaui before mine eye, 



Where'er it wandered in the morn 

Of Dlissful infancy. 

This glimpse of glory, why renewed? 

Nay, rather speak with gratitude ; 

For, if a vestige of those gleams 

Survived, 'twas only in my dreams. 

Dread Power ! whom peace and calmnesi 

serve 
No less than Nature's threatening voice, 
If aught unworthy be my choice, 
From Thee if I would swerve ; 
Oh, let thy grace remind me of the light 
Full early lost, and fruitlessly dej^lored ; 
Which, at this moment, on my waking sight 
Appears to shine, by miracle restored ; 
My soul, though yet confined to earth, 
Rejoices in a second birth ! 
— 'Tis past, the visionary splendor fades ; 
And night approaches with her shades.* 
i8tS. 



COMPOSED I?Y THE SEA-SHORE. 

What mischief cleaves to unsubdued r» 

How fancy sickens by vague hopes beset ; 
How baffled projects on the spirit prey, 
And fruitless wishes eat the heart away, 
The Sailor knows ; he best, whose lot is 

cast 
On the relentless sea that holds him fast 
On chance dependent, and the fickle star 
Of power, through long and melancholy 

war. 
O sad it is, in sight of foreign shores, 
Daily to think on old familiar doors, 
Hearths loved in childhood, and ancestral 

floors ; 
Or, tossed about along a waste of foam. 
To ruminate on that delightful home 
NVhich with the dear Betrothed ^vas to 

come ; 
Or came and was and is, yet meels the eye 
Never but in the world of memory ; 
Or in a dream recalled, whose sniuothesi 

range 



* Tlie multiplication if mountain-ridges, de 
scribed at the commencement of the thirds 
.Stanz.i of this Ode, as a kind of Jacob's Lad- 
der, leading to HL-aven, is produced either bv 
watery vapors, or sunny haze ;— in the prt-sent 
instance by the latter cause. Allusions to tlic 
Ode, entitled "Intimations of Inimortalitv,' 
pervade the last stanza of the foregoing Pmcb 



POEMS OF THE TM AGINATION. 



395 



jfs crossed by knowledge, or by dread, of 

change. 
And if not so, whose perfect joy makes 

sleep 
k thing too briglit for breathing man to 

keep. 
Hail to the virtues which that perilous life 
Extracts from Nature's elemental strife ; 
And welcome glory won in attles fought 
As bravely as ithe foe was ke nly sought. 
I tut to each galhnt Captain and his crew 
A less imperious sympathy is due, 
Such as my verse now yields, while moon- 
beams play 
On the mute sea in this unruffled bay ; 
Si.ch as vi'l promptly flow from every 

breast, 
Where good men, disappointed in the 

quest 
Of wealth and power and honors, long for 

rest ; 
Or, l)aving known the splendors of success, 
Sigh for the obscurities of happiness. 



The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love, 
Glories of evening, as ye there are seen 
Witii but a span of sky between — 
Speak one of you, my doubts remove. 

Which is the attendant Page and which the 
Queen ? 



XII. 

TO tup: moon. 

(COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, — ON THE 
COAST OF CUMUERLAND.) 

Wanderer! that stoop'st so low, and 

com'st so near 
'J"o human life's unsettled atmosphere ; 
Who lov'st with Night and silence to par- 
take, 
So might it seem, the cares of them that 

wake ; 
And, through the cottage-lattice softly 

peeping, 
Dost shield from harm the humblest of the 

sleeping ; 
What pleasure once encompassed those 

sweet names 
Which yet in thy behalf the Poet claims. 
An idolizing dreamer as of yore ! — 
I slight them all ; and, on this sea-beat 

shore 



Sole-sitting, only can to thoughts attend 
That bid me hail thee as the Sailor's 

Friend ; 
So call thee for heaven's grace through the« 

made known 
By confidence supplied and mercy shown. 
When not a twinkling star or beacon's light 
Abates the perils of a stormy night; 
And for less obvious benefits, that find 
Their way, with thy pure help, to heart and 

mind ; 
Both for the adventurer starting in life's 

prime ; 
And veteran ranging round from clime to 

clime. 
Long-baffled hope's slow fever in his veins, 
And wounds and weakness oft his labor's 

sole remains. 

The aspiring Mountains and the winding 

Streams, 
Empress of Night I are gladdened by thy 

beams ; 
A look of thine the wilderness pervades. 
And penetrates the forest's inmost shades; 
Thou, checkering peaceably the minster's 

gloom, 
Guid'st the pale Mourner to the lost one's 

tomb ; 
Canst reach the Prisoner — to his grated 

cell 
Welcome, though silent and intangible ! — 
And lives there one, of all that come and go 
On the great waters toiling to and fro. 
One, who has watched thee at some quiet 

hour 
Enthroned aloft in undisputed power, 
Or crossed by vapory streaks and clouds 

that move 
Catching the lustre they in part reprove — 
Nor sometimes felt a fitness in thy sway 
To call up thoughts that shun the glare of 

day. 
And make the serious happier than tho 

gay? 

Yes, lovely Moon ! if thou so mildly 

bright 
Dcst rouse, yet surely in thy own despite. 
To fiercer mood the phrenzy-strickcn brain, 
Let me a compensating faith maintain ; 
That there's a sensitive, a tender, part 
Whicli thou canst touch in every human 

hoart. 
Fur healing and composure. — But, as least 
And mightiest billows ever have confessed 
Thy domination ; as the whole vast Sea 



39^ 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Feels throui^h her lowest depths thy sov- 
ereignty ; 
So shines that countenance with especial 

grace 
On them who urge the keel her plains to 

trace 
Furrowing its way right onward. The most 

rude, 
Cut off from home and country, may have 

stood— 
Even till long gazing hath bedimmed his 

eye. 
Or the mute rapture ended in a sigh — 
Touched by accordance of thy placid cheer, 
Willi some internal lights to memory dear, 
Or fancies steahng forth to soothe the 

breast 
Tired with its daily share of eartli's unrest, 
Gentle awakenings, visitations meek; 
A kindly influence whereof few wiil speak, 
Though it can wet with tears tli-i hardiest 

cheek. 
And when thy beauty in the shadowy 

cave 
Is hidden, buried in its monthly grave ; 
Then, while the Sailor, 'mid an open sea 
Swept by a favoring wind that leaves thought 

free, 
Paces the deck — no star perhaps in sight, 
And nothing save the moving ship's own 

light 
To cheer the long dark hours of vacant 

night- - 
Oft with his musings does thy image blend. 
In Ins mind's eye thy crescent iiorns ascend. 
And thou art still, O Moon, that Sailor's 

Friend ! 

♦ 

XIII. 

TO THE MOON. 

(rydal.) 

Queen of the stars I — so gentle, so benign. 

That ancient Fable did to thee assign. 

When darkness creeping o'er thy silver 

brow 
Warned thee these upper regions to forego. 
Alternate empire in the shades below — 
A Bard, who, lately near the wide- spread 

sea 
Traversed by gleaming ships, looked up to 

thee 
With grateful thoughts, doth now thy rising 

hail 
From the close confines of a shadowy vale. 



Glory of night, conspicuous yet serene. 
Nor less attractive wiien by glimpses seen 
Through cloudy umbrage, well might that 

fair face. 
And all those attributes of modest grace, 
In days when Fancy wrought unchecked by 

fear, 
Down to the green earth fetched thee from 

thy sphere, 
To sit in leafy woods by fountains clear I 

O still belov'd (for thine, meek Power, art 
charms 
That fascinate the very Babe in arms 
While he, uplifted towards thee, laughs out- 
right. 
Spreading his little palms in his glad 

Mother's sight) 
O still belov'd, once worshipped ! Time, 

that frowns 
In his destructive flight on earthly crowns., 
Spares thy mild splendor ; still those far- 
shot beams 
Tremble on dancing waves and ri] jiling 

streams 
With stainless touch, as chaste as when 

thy praise 
Was sung by Virgin-choirs in festal lays : 
And through dark trials still dost thou ex- 
plore 
The w ,y for increase punctual as of yore. 
When teeming Matrons—yielding to rude 

faith 
In mysteries of birth and life and death 
And i:)ainful struggle and deliverance — 

l^rayed 
Of tliee to visit them with lenient aid. 
What though the rites be swept away, the 

fanes 
Extinct that echoed to the votive strains ; 
Yet thy mild aspect does not, cannot, cease 
Love to promote and purity and peace : 
And Fancy, unreproved, even yet may 

trace 
Faint types of suffering in thy beamlcss 
face. 

Then, silent Monitress ! let us — not blind 
To worlds untliought of till the searching 

mind 
Of Science laid them open to mankind — 
Told, also, how the voiceless heavens de- 
clare 
God's glory ; and acknowledging thy share 
In that blest charge ; let us — without of- 
fence 
To aught of highest, holiest, influence— 



POEAfS OF THE IMAGIIVATION. 



397 



Receive whatever good 'tis given thee to 

dispense. 
May sage and simple, catching witli one eye 
The mural intimations of thesky, 
Lc<irn from thy course, where'er tlieir own 

be taken, 
*•■ T.Q look on tempests, and be never 

shaken ; " 
"835. 



To keep with faithful step the appointed 

way 
Eclipsing or eclipsed, by night or day, 
And from example of thy monthly range 
Gently to brook-decline and fatal change ; 
Meek, patient, steadfast, and with loftier 

scope. 
Than thy revival yields, for gladsome hope 1 



POEM 



COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DUPING A TOUR, IN THE SUMMER OF 1 833. 

[IlavinR been prevented by the .ateness of th3 season, in iS^i, from visiting Staffa a id lona, 
I'le author made these the principal objects of a short tour in the summer of 1833, of which the 
fi^Ilowmj; scries of poems is a Memorial. The course inirsued was down the Cumberland river 
IK rwent, nnd to Whitehaven, thence (by (he Isle of Man, where a few days were passed) up 
ir.e Frith of Clyde to Greenock, then to Oban, Staffa, lona, and back towards England by Loch 
Awe, Ipverary, Loch Goi!-head, Greenock, and through p;»rts of Renfrewshire, Ayrshire, and 
Dumfries-bhire to Carlisle, and thence up the river ICden, and homewards by Uilswater.] 

fields that ring with jocund 
fined 



AniKU Rydalian Laurels ! that have grown 
And spread as if ye knew that days might 

come 
When ye would shelter in a happy home. 
On this fair Mf^unt, a Foot of your own. 
One who ae'cr ventured for a Delphic 

crown 
To sue the God ; but, haunting your green 

shade 
All seasons through, is humblv pleased to 

braid 
Ground flowers, beneath your guardianship, 

self-sown. 
Farewell ! no Minstrels now with harp nev/ 

strung 
For summer wandering quit their household 

bowers ; 
Yet not for this wants Poesy a tongue 
To cheer the Itinerant on whom she pours 
Her spirit, while he crosses Icnely moors, 
Or mi'.sing sits forsaken halls among. 



Why should the Enthusiast, journeying 

through this Isle 
Repine as if his hour were come too late ? 
Not unprotected in her mouldering state, 
Antiquity salutes him with a smile, 



'Mid fruitfu 

toil, 
And pleasure-grounds where Taste, 

Co-mate 

Of Truth and Beauty, strives to imitate, 
Far as she may, primeval Nature's style. 
Fair Land ! by time's parental love made 

free, 
Dv Social Order's watchful arms embraced ; 
With unexampled union meet in thee, 
I'or eye and mind, the present and the past ; 
With golden prospect for futurity, 
If that be reverenced which ought to last. 



They called Thee Merry England, in 

old time ; 
A happy people won for thee that name 
With envy heard in many a distant clime ; 
And, spite of change, for me thou kecp'st 

the same 
Endearing title, a responsive chime 
To the heart's fond belief; though some 

there are 
Whose sterner judgments deem that wcjrd a 

snare 
For inattentive fancy, like the lime 
Which foolish birds are caught with. Can, 

I ask, 
This face of rural beauty be a nusk 



39» 



POEMS OF THE IMAGTNATIOIV. 



For discontent, and poverty, and crime ; 
These spreading towns a cloak for lawless 

win ? 

Forbid it, Heaven! — and Merry England 

still 
Shall be thy rightful name, in prose and 

rhyme ! 



TO THE RIVER GRETA, NEAR KESWICK. 

Greta, what fearful listening ! when huge 

stones 
Rumble along thy bed, bl'ck after block : 
Or, whirling with reiterated shock, 
Combat, while darkness aggravates the 

groans : 
But if thou (like Cocytus from the moans 
Heard on his rueful margin) thence wert 

named 
Th^ Mourner, thy true nature was defamed, 
And the habitual murmur that atones 
For thy worst rage, forgotten. Oft as 

Spring 
Decks, on thy sinuous banks, her thousand 

thiones, 
Seats of glad instinct and love's carolling, 
The concert, for the happv, then may vie 
With liveliest peals of birth-day harmony : 
To a grieved heart, the notes are benisons. 



TO THE RIVER DERWENT. 

Among the mountains were we nursed, 

loved Stream ! 
Thou near the eagle's nest — within brief 

sail, 
I, of his bold wing floating on the gale. 
Where thy deep voice could lull me ! Faint 

the beam 
Of human life when first allowed to gleam 
On mortal notice. — Glory of the vale. 
Such thv meek outset, with a crown, though 

frail, 
Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam 
Of thy soft breath ! — Less vivid wreatli en- 
twined 
Nemaean victor's brow ; less bright was 

worn, 
Meed of some Roman chief — in triumph 

borne 
With captives chained ; and sliedding from 

his car 
The sunset splendors of a finished war 
Upon the proud enslavers of mankind ! 



IN SIGHT OF THE TOWN OF COCKER' 
MOUTH. 

(Wlicre the Author was born, and his FatherN 

remains are laid.) 
A POINT of life between my Parents' dust. 
And yours, my buried Little-ones ! am I ; 
And to those graves looking habitually 
In kindred quiet I repose my trust. 
Ueatli to the innocent is more than just, 
.^nd, to the sinner, mercifully bent; 
So may I hope, if truly I repent 
And meekly bear the ills which bear I must; 
And You, my Offspring ! that do still re 

main 
Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race. 
If e'er, tlirough fault of mine, in mutual 

pain 
We breathed together for a moment's space, 
The wrong, by love provoked, let love ar- 
raign, 
And only love keep in your hearts a place. 



ADDRESS FROM THE SPIRIT OF COCKER- 
MOUTH CASTLE. 

" Tiiou look'st upon me, and dost fondly 

think. 
Poet ! that, stricken as both are by years, 
We, differing once so much, are now Com- 
peers, 
Prepared, when each has stood his time, to 

sink 
Into the dust. Erewhile a sterner link 
United us ; when thou, in boyish play. 
Entering my dungeon, didst become a prey 
To soul-appalling darkness. Not a blink 
Of light was there ; — and thus did I, thy 

Tutor, 
Make thy young thoughts acquainted with 

the grave ; 
Yv^'hile thou wert chasing the wing'd butter- 

fly 
Through my green courts ; or climbing, a 

bold suitor, 
Up to the flowers whose golden progeny 
Still round my shattered brow in beauty 

wave." 

VIII. 

nun's well, brigham. 
The cattle crowding round t1«3 beverage 

clear 
To slake their thirst, with reckless hoofa 

have trod 



POEMS OF THE /MAGEVAr/OJV. 



390 



The encircling turf into a barren clod ; 
Through which the waters creep, then dis- 
appear, 
Born to be lost on Derwent flowing near; 
Yet. o'er the brink, and round the lime-stone 

cell 
Of the pure spring (they call it the '' Nun's 

Well," 
Name that first struck by chance my startled 

ear)- 
A tender Spirit Ijroods— the pensive shade 
Of ritual honors to this fountain paid 
By hooded Votaresses with saintly cheer ; 
Albeit oft the V^irgin-mother mild 
Looked down witli pity upon eyes beguiled 
Into the sheddmg of " too soft a tear." 

IX, 

TO A FRIEND. 
(ON THE BANKS OF THE DERWENT ) 

Pastor and Patriot !— at whose bidding 

rise 
These modest walls, amid a flock that need, 
Foi one who conies to watch them and to 

feed, 
A fixed Abode — keep down presageful 

sighs. 
Threats, which the unthinking only can de- 

spisvt, 
Perplex the Church ; but be thou firm, — be 

true 
To thy f^rst hope, and this good work pur- 
sue, 
Poor as thou art. A welcome sacrifice 
Dost Thou prepare, whose sign will be the 

smoke 
Of thy new hearth ; and sooner shall its 

wreaths, 
Mounting while earth her morning incense 

breathes, 
From wandering fiends of air receive a yoke, 
And straightway cease to aspire, than God 

disdain 
This humble tribute as ill-timed or vain. 



MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 

(LANDING AT THE MOUTH OF THE DER- 
WENT, WORKINGTON.) 

Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces 

vowed. 
The Queen drew back the wimple that she 

wore ; 
And to the throng, that on tlie Cumibrian 

shore > 



Her landing hailed, how touchmgly she 

bowed ! 
And like a Star (that, from a heavy cloud 
Of pine-tree foliage poised in air, forth 

darts. 
When a soft summer gale at evening parts 
Tiie gloom that did its loveliness enshroud) 
She smiled , but Time, the old Saturnian 

seer. 
Sighed on the wing as her foot pressed the 

strand, 
With step preclusive to a long array 
Of woes and degradations hand in hand — 
Weeping captivity, and shuddering fear 
Stilled by the ensanguined block of Fother^ 

ingay ! 

XI. 

stanzas SUGGESTED IN A STEAM-nOAT 
OFF SAINT PEES' HEAD, ON THE COAST 
OF CUMBERLAND. 

If Life were slumber on a bed of down. 
Toil unimposed, vicissitude unknown. 
Sad were our lot : no hunter of the hare 
Exults like him whose javelin from the lair 
Has roused the lion ; no one plucks the rose, 
Whose proffered beauty in safe shelter 

blows 
Mid a trim garden's summer luxuries. 
With joy like his who climbs, on hands and 

knees. 
For some rare plant, yon Headland of St. 

Bees. 

This independence upon oar and sail, 
This new indifference to brsr ze or gale, 
This straight-lined progrees, furrowing a 

flat lea, 
And regular as if locked in certamty — 
Depress the hours. Up, Spirit of th>; 

storm ! 
That Courar;e may find something to per- 
form ; 
That Fortituuo, whose blood disdains to 

freeze 
At Danger's bidding, may confront tl-.o 

seas, 
Firm as the towering Headlands of St. 

Bees. 
Dread cliff of Baruth ! that wild wish may 

sleep. 
Bold as if men and creatures of the Deep 
Breathed the same element ; too many 

wrecks 
Have struck thy sides, too many ghastly 

decks 



400 



POEMS OF THE IRf AGINATION. 



Hast thou locked down upon, that sudi a 
thouglit 

Should here be welcome, and in verse en- 
wrought : 

With lliy stern aspect better far agrees 

Utterance of thanks that we have past with 
case, 

As millions thus shall do, the Headlands of 
St. Bees. 

Yet, while each useful Art augments her 

store, 
Wliat boots the gain if Nature should lose 

more, — 
And Wisdom, as she holds a Christian 

place 
In man's intelligence suljlinied by grace ? 
When Bega sought of yore the Cumbrian 

coast. 
Tempestuous winds her holy errand 

cross 'd : 
She knelt in prayer — th.e waves their wrath 

appease ; 
And, from her vow well weighed in 

Heaven's decrees, 
Kose, where she touched the strand, the 

Chantry of St. Bees. 

" Cruel of heart were thcv, bloody of hand," 
Wlio in these Wilds then struggled for 

command ; 
The strong were merciless, without hope 

the weak ; 
Till this bright Stranger came, fair as day- 
break. 
And as a cresset true that darts its length 
Of beamy lustre from i tower of strengtli ; 
Guidin '^h mariner threnigh troul)lcd seas, 
And cheering oft i peaceful reveries, 
Liked the fixed Light that crowns yon 
Headland of St. Bees, 

To aid the Votaress, niiracles believed 
Wrought in men's minds, like miracles 

•achieved ; 
So piety took root ; and Song might tell 
Wliat humanizing virtues near her coll 
Sprang up, and spread their fragrance wide 

around ; 
How savage bosoms melted at the sound 
Of gospel-truth enchained in harmonies 
Wafted o'er waves, or creeping through 

close trees. 
From her religious Mansion of St. Bees. 

When her sweet Voice, that instrument of 

love. 
Was glorified, and took its place, above 



The silent stars, among the angelic quire, 
Her chantry blazed with sacrilegious fire, 
And perished utterly ; but her good deeds 
Had sown the spot, that witnessed them, 

with seeds 
Which lay in earth expectant, till a breeze 
With quickening impulse answered their 

mute pleas. 
And lo ! a statelier pile, the Abbey of St 

Bees. 

There are the naked clothed, the hungiy 

fed ; 
And Cliarity extendeth to the dead 
Her intercessions made for the soul's rest 
Of tardy penitents ; or for the best 
Among the good (when love might el;;i 

have slept, 
Sickened, or died) in pious memory kept. 
Thanks to tlie austere ami simple Devotees, 
Who, to that service bound by venial fees. 
Kecji watch before the altiirs of St. Bees. 

Are not, in sooth, their Requiems sacrei? 

ties 
Woven nut of passion's sharpest agonies, 
Subdued, composed, and formalized by a'"t, 
To fix a wiser sorrow in the heart ? 
The prayer for them whose hour is pasi 

away 
.Says to the Living, piofit while ye may! 
A little ]^art, and tliat the worst, he sees 
Who thinks that priestly cunning hdds the 

keys 
That best unlock the secrets of St. Bees. 

Conscience, the timid being's inmost light, 
Hope of the dawn and solace of the night, 
Cheers these Recluses with a steady ray 
In many an Iiour when judgment goes 

astray. 
Ah scorn not hastily their rule who try 
Earth to despise, and flesh to mortify ; 
Consume with zeal, in winged ecstasies 
Of prayer and praise forget their rosaries, 
Nor hear the loudest surges of St. Bees. 

Yet none so prompt to succor and protect 
The forlorn traveller, or sailor wrecked 
On the bare coast ; nor do they grudge th( 

boon 
Which staff and cockle hat and sandsl 

shoon 
Claim for the pilgrim ; and, though chidings 

sharp 
May sometimes greet the strolling mii> 

strel's harp. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGWATION. 



401 



V is not then when, swept with sportive 

ease, 
ft charms a feast-day throng of all degrees, 
Brightening the archway of revered St. 

Bees. 

JL How did the cliffs and echoing hills rejoice 
What time the Benedictine Brethren's 

voice, 
Imploring, or commanding with meet pride, 
Summoned the Chiefs to lay their feuds 

aside. 
And under one blest ensign serve the Lord 
In Palestine. Advance, indignant Sword ! 
Flaming till thou from Panym hands re- 
lease 
That tomb, dread centre of all sanctities 
Nursed in the quiet Abbey of St. Bees. 

But look we now to them whose minds from 

far 
Follow the fortunes which they may not 

share. 
While in Judea Fancy loves to roam, 
?he helps to make a Holy-land at liome : 
The Star of Bethlehem from its sphere in- 
vites 
To sound the crystal depth of maiden 

rights ; 
And wedded Life, through scriptural mys- 
teries, 
Heavenward ascends with all her charities. 
Taught by the hooded Celibates of St. 
Bees. 

Nor be it e'er forgotten how by skill 

Of cloistered Architects, free their souls to 

fill 
With love of God, throughout the Land 

were raised 
Churches on whose symbolic beau.ty gazed 
Peasant and mail-clad Chief with pious 

awe ; 
As at this day men seeing what they saw, 
Or the baie wreck i faith's solemnities, 
Aspire to more than earthly destinies ; 
Witness yon Pile that greets us from St. 

Bees. 

Yet more ; arou' ' ose Churches, gathered 

Towns 
Safe from the feudal Castle's haughty 

frcwns ; 
Peaceful abodes, where Justice might uj> 

hold 
Her scales with even hand, and culture 

mould 



The heart to pity, train the mind in care 
For rules of life, sound as the Time could 

bear. 
Nor dost thou fail, thro' abject love of ease, 
Or hindrance raised by sordid purposes. 
To bear thy part in this good work, St. 

Bees. 

Who with the ploughshare clove the barren 
moors. 

And to green meadows changed the swampy 
shores ? 

Thinned the rank woods ; and for the 
clieerful grange 

Made room where wolf and boar were used 
to range ? 

Who taught, and showed by deeds, that 
gentler chains 

Should bind the vassal to his lord's do- 
mains .'' 

The thoughtful Monks, intent their God to 
please, 

For Christ's dear sake, by human sympa- 
thies 

Poured from the bosom of Jiy Church, St, 
Bees ! 

But all availed not ; by a mandate given 
Through lawless will tlie Brotherhood was 

driven 
Forth from their cells ; their ancient House 

laid low 
In Reformation's sweeping overthrow. 
But now once more the local Heart revivi.s, 
The inextinguishable Spirit strives. 
Oh may that Power who hushed the stormy 

seas, 
And cleared a way for the first Votaries, 
Prosper the new-born College of St. Bees' 

Alas ! the Genius of our age from Schools 
Less humble draws her lessons, aims, and 

rules. 
To Prowess guided by her insighf keen 
Matter and Spirit are as one Maciune ; 
Boastful Idolatress of formal skill 
She in her own would merge the etcnal 

will: 
Better, if Reason's triumphs match with 

these, 
Her flight before the bold credulities 
That furthered the first teachings of St 

Bees.* 
183.1. 



* See Excursion, seventh part ; and Eccle* 
isastic.il Sketches, second part, near the be< 
ginning. 



402 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINAlION. 



xn. 



IN THE CHANNEL, BETWEEN THE COAST 
OF CUMBERLAND AND THE ISLE OF 

MAN. 

Ranging the heights of Scawfell or Clack- 
comb, 
In his lone course the Shepherd oft will 

pause, 
And strive to fathom the mysterious laws 
By which the clouds, arrayed in light or 

gloom, 
On Mona settle, and the shapes assume 
Of all her peaks and ridges. What he 

draws 
Fiom sense, faith, reason, fancy, of the 

cause, 
He will take with him to the silent tomb. 
Or, by his fire, a child. upon his knee, 
Haply the untaught Philosopher may speak 
Of the strange sight, nor hide his theory 
'I'hat satisfies the simple and tlie meek. 
Blest in their pious ignorance, though weak 
To cope with Sages undevoutly free. 

XIII, 
AT SEA OFF THE ISLE OF MAN, 

Bold words affirmed, in days when faith 

was strong 
And dor.bts and scruples seldom teazed the 

brain, 
Tliat no adventurer's bark had power to 

gain 
Tliese shores if he approached them bent 

on wrong ; 
For, suddenly up-conjured from the Main, 
Mists rose to hide the Land — that search, 

though long 
And eager, might be still pursued in vain. 
O Fancy, what an age was that for song ! 
Tiiat age, when not by laws inanimate. 
As men believed, the waters were imjielled, 
The air controlled, the stars tlieir courses 

held ; 
But element and orb on acts did wait 
Of Powers endued with visible form, in- 
stinct 
Widi will, and to their work by passion 

linked. 



Desire we past illusions to recall ? 
To reinstate wild Fancy, would we Iiide 
Truths whose thick veil Science has drawn 
aside ? 



No, — let this Age, high as she may, instaV, 
In her esteem the thirst that wrought mant 

fall. 
The universe is infinitely wide ; 
And conquering Reason, if self-glorified, 
Can nowhere move uncrossed by some nev< 

wall 
Or gulf of mystery, which thou alone. 
Imaginative Faith ! canst overleap. 
In progress toward the fount of Love, — tht 

throne 
Of Power whose ministers the records keep 
Of periods fixed, and laws established, less 
Flesh to exalt than prove its nothingness. 



ON entering DOUGLAS BAY, ISLE OF 
MAN. 
" Digmim laiide viiuiii Musa vetat mori." 
The feudal Keep, the bastions of Cohorn, 
Fven when they rose to check or to repel 
rides of aggressive war, oft served as well 
(■reedy ambition, armed to treat with scorn 
Just limits; but yon Tower, whose smiles 

adorn 
This perilous bay, stands clear of all of- 
fence ; 
Blest work it is of love and innocence, 
A Tower of refuge built for the else forlorn. 
Spare it, ye waves, and lift the mariner, 
Struggling for life, into its saving arms ! 
Spare, too, the human helpers I Do they 

stir 
'Mid vour fierce shock like men afraid to 

die .? 
No ; their dread service nerves the heart it 

warms, 
And they are led by noble Hillary. 



BY the sea-shore, ISLE OF MAN. 

Why stand we gazing on the sparkling 

Brine, 
With wonder smit by its transparency 
And all-enraptured with its purity ? — 
Because the unstained, the clear, the crys- 
talline. 
Have ever in them something of benign ; 
Whether in gem, in water, or in sky, 
A sleeping infant's brow, or wakeful eye 
( )f a young maiden, only not divine. 
Scarcely the hand forbears to dip its palm 
For beverage drawn as from a mouiitain 

well. 
Temptation centres in the liquid Calm j 
Our daily raiment seems no obstacle 



POEMS OF TtFE TMAGlNATrOiV. 



403 



To instantaneous plunging in, deep Sea ! 
And revelling in long embrace with thee.* 

XVII. 
ISLE OF MAN. 

A YOUTH too certain of his power to wade 
On the smooth bottom of this clear bright 

sea, 
To sight so shallow, with a bather's glee 
"Leapt from tliis rock, and but for timely aid 
He, by the alluring element betrayed, 
Had perished. Then might Sea-nymphs 

(and with sighs 
Of self-reproach) have chanted elegies 
liewailing his sad fate, when he was laid 
In peaceful earth : for, doubtless, he was 

frank. 
Utterly in himself devoid of guile ; 
Knew not the double-dealing of a smile ; 
Nor aught that makes men's promises a 

blank, 
Or deadly snare : and he survives to bless 
The Power that saved him in his strange 

distress. 

XVI I r. 

ISLE OF MAN. 

Dm pangs of grief for lenient time too keen. 
Chief that devouring waves had caused — or 

guilt 
Which they had witnessed, sway the man 

who built 
This Homestead, placed where nothing 

could be seen. 
Naught heard, of ocean troubled or serene ! 
A tired Ship soldier on ))aternal land, 
That o'er the channel holds august com- 
mand. 
The dwelling raised, — a veteran Marine. 
He, in disgust, turned from the neighboring 

sea 
To shun the memory of a listless life 
That hung between two callings. May no 

strife , free, 

More hurtful here beset him, doomed though 
.Self-doomed, to worse inaction, till his eye 
Shrink from the daily sight of earth and 

sky ! 

XIX. 

BY A RETIRED MARINER. 

(A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR.) 

From early youth I ploughed the restless 

Main, 
My mind as restless and as apt to change ; 



* The sea-water on the coast of the Isle of 
Man is singularly pure and beautiful. 



Through every clime and ocean did I range, 
In hope at length a competence to gain : 
For poor to Sea I went, and poor I still re- 
main. 
Year after year I strove, but strove in vain, 
And hardships manifold did I endure. 
For Fortune on me never deign'd to smile? 
Vet I at last a resting-place have found. 
With just enough life's comforts to procure. 
In a snug Cove on this our favored Isle, 
A peaceful spot where Nature's gifts 

abound ; 
Then sure I have no reason to complain. 
Though poor to Sea I went, and poor I still 
remain. 



AT DALA-SALA, ISLE OF MAN. 
(supposed TO BE WRITTEN BY A FRIEND.) 

Broken in fortune, but in mind entire 
And sound in principle, I seek repose 
Where ancient trees this convent pile 'in- 
close,* 
In ruin beautiful. When vain desire 
Intrudes on peace, I pray the eternal Sire 
To cast a soul-subduing shade on me, 
A gray-haired, pensive, thankful Refugee ; 
A shade — but with some sparWs of heavenly 

t^re 
Once to these cells vouchsafed. And when 

I note 
The old Tower's brow yellowed as with the 

beams 
Of sunset ever there, albeit streams 
Of stormy weather-stains that semblance 

wrought, 
I thank the silent Monitor, and say 
" Shine so, my aged brow, at.dl hours of the 
day ! " 

XXI. 

TVNWAI.D HILL. 

Once on the top of Tynwald's formal 

mound 
(Still marked with green turf circles narrow 

ing 
Stage above stage) would sit this Island'* 

King, 
The laws to promulgate, emoSed and 

crowned ; 
While, compassing the little mount around. 
Degrees and Orders stood, each under each: 
Now, like to things within fate's easiest 

reach. 



Rusheii Abbey. 



404 



POEMS OF THE IMAGIA^ATION. 



The power is merged, tlie pon^p a grave has 

found. 
Off witli yon cloud, old Snafell ! that thine 

eye 
Over three Realms may take its widest 

range ; 
And let, for them, tliy fountains utter 

strange 
Voices, tliy winds break forth in prophecy, 
If tlie whole State must suffer mortal change, 
Like Mona's miniature of sovereignty. 



XXII. 

Despond who will — / heard a voice ex- 
claim, 
" Though fierce the assault, and shatter'd 

the defence, 
It cannot be that Britain's social iiame. 
The glorious work of time and providence, 
Before a flying season's rash jiretence, 
Should fall ; that She, whose virtue put to 

shrjme, 
When Kurojie prostrate lay, the Conqueror's 

aim, 
Should perish, self-si.bverted. Dlack and 

dense 
The cloud is ; but brings that a day of 

doom 
To Liberty ? Her sun is up the while. 
That orb whose beams round Saxon Alfred 

shone : 
Then laugh, ye innocent Vales 1 ye Streams, 

sweep on. 
Nor let one billow of our heaven-blest Isle 
Toss in the fanning wind a humblerplume." 

XXIII. 

IN THK FRITH OF CLVnF,AILSA CRAG, 
DURING AN ECLU'SEOF THE SUN, JULY 

Since risen from ocean, ocean to defy. 
Appeared the Crag of Ailsa, ne'er did morn 
With gleaming lights more gracefully adorn 
His sides, or wreathe with mist his fore- 
head high : 
Now, faintly darkening with the sun's 

eclipse, 
Still is he seen, in lone sublimity, 
Towering above the sea and little ships; 
For dwarfs the tallest seem while sailing by, 
Each for her haven ; with her freight of 

Care, 
Pleasure, or Grief, and Toil that seldom 

looks 
Into the secret of to-morrow's late ; 



Though poor, yet rich, without the wealth 

of books, 
Or aught that watchful Love to Nature 

owes 
Vox her mute Powers, fix'd Forms, of 

transient Siiows. 



ON THE FRITH OF CLYDE. 
(IN A STEAM-i;OAT.) 

Arran I a single-crested Teneriffe, 
A St. Helena next — in shape and liue. 
Varying her crowded peaks and ridges blue ; 
Who but must covet a cloud-seat, or skiff 
Ihiilt for the air, or winged liippogriff .'' 
That he might Hy, where no one could 

pursue, 
From tiiis dull Monster arid her sooty crew; 
And, as a God, light on thy topmost cliff. 
iniix)t(,'nt wish ! wliich reason would despise 
if the mind knew no union of extremes. 
No natural bond between the boldest schemes 
Ambition frames, and heart-humilities. 
Heneath stern mountains many a soft vale 

lies. 
And lofty springs give birth to lowly streams 

XXV. 

ON REVISITING DUNOLLY CASTLE. 

(Sec former series^ p. 3^5.) 

The captive Bird was gone; — to cliff or 

moor 
Perchance had flown, delivered by the 

storm ; 
Or he had pined, and sunk to feed the 

worm ; 
Him found we not '■ but, climbing a tall 

tower, 
There saw, impaved with rude fidelity 
Of art mosaic, in a roofless floor, 
An Eagle with stretched wings, but beam- 
less eye — 
An Eagle that could neither wail nor soar. 
Effigy of the Vanislied— (sliall I dare 
To call thee so ?) or symlol of fierce deeds 
And of the 'towering courage which past 

times 
Rejoiced in — take, whate'er thou be, a share 
Not undeserved, of the memorial rhymes 
That animate my way where'er it leads ! 

XXVI. 
THE DUNOLLY EAGLE. 

Not to the clouds, not to the cliff, he flew, 
I5ut when a storm, on sea or mountain bred, 
Came and delivered him, alone he sped 
Into the castle-dungeon's darkest mew. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATrON 



405 



Now, near his master's liousc in open view 
He dwells, and hears indignant tempests 

liowl. 
Kennelled and chained. Ye tame domestic 

fowl, 
Beware of him ! Thou, saucy cockatoo, 
Look to thy plumage and thy life ! — The 

roe, 
Fleet as the west wind, is for hivi no 

quarry ; 
I'«. danced in ether he will never tarry. 
Eyeing the sea's blue depths. Poor Bird ! 

even so 
Doth man of brother man a creature make 
That clings to slavery for its own sad sake. 

XXVII. 
WRITTEN IN A FLANK LEAF OF MAC- 

pherson's OSSIAN. 

Oft have I caught, upon a fitful breeze, 

Fragments of far-off melodies, 

With ear not coveting the whole, 

A part so charmed the pensive soul 

Wiiile a dark storm before my sight 

Was yielding, on a mountain heigiit 

Loose vapors have 1 watched, that won 

Prismatic colors from the sun ; 

Nor felt a wish that heaven would shov/ 

The image of its perfect bow. 

What need, then, of these finished Strains, 

Away with counterfeit Remains ! 

An aljbey in its Icne recess, 

A temple of the willderncss. 

Wrecks though they be, announce with 

feeling 
The majesty of honest dealing 
Spirit of Ossian! if imbound 
In lanL*uage thou may'st yet be found, 
If aught (intrusted to the }>cn 
Or floating on the tongues of men. 
Albeit shattered and impaired; 
Subsist thy dignity to guard. 
In concert with memorial c^.im 
Of old gray stone, and high-born name 
That cleaves to rock or pillared cave 
Where moans the blast, or beats the wave, 
Let Truth, stern arbitress of all, 
linterpret that Original, 
And for presumptuous wrongs atone ; 
Authentic words be given, or none ! 

Time is not blind ; — yet H'^ who spares 
Pyramid pointing to the stars. 
Hath preyed with ruthless appetite 
On all that marked the primal flight 
Of the poetic ecstasy 



Into the land of mystery. 
No tongue is able to rehearse 
One measure, Orpheus ! of thy verse; 
Musieus, stationed with his lyre 
Supreme among the Elvsian quire. 
Is, for tlie dwellers upon earth. 
Mute as a lark ere morning's birth. 
Why grieve for these, ti;ough past away 
The music, and extmct the lay .' 
Wlien thousands, by severer doom, 
Full early to the silent tomb 
Have sunk, at Nature's call ; or strayed 
I'rom hope and promise, self betrayed ; 
I'he garland withering on their brows ; 
Stung with remorse for broken vows ; 
Frantic — else how might they rejoice.'' 
And friendless, by their own sad choice 1 

Hail, Bards of mightier grasp I on you 
I chiefly call, t!ie chosen Few, 
Who cast not off the acknowledged guide, 
Wiio faltered not, nor turned aside; 
Whose lofty genius could survive 
Privation, under sorrow thrive ; 
In whom the fiery Muse revered 
The symbol of a snow-white beard, 
Bedewed with meditative tears 
Dropped from the lenient cloud of years. 

Brothers in soul ! though distant times 
Produced you nursed in various climes, 
Ye, when the orb of life had waned, 
A plenitude of love retained : 
Hence, while in you each sad regret 
By corresponding hope was met. 
Ye lingered among human kind, 
Sweet voices for the passing wind ; 
Departing sunbeams, loth to stop, 
Though smiling on the last hill top 1 
Such to the tender-hearted maid 
Even ere her joys begin to fade ; 
Such, haply, to the rugged chief 
By fortune crushed, or tamed by grief; 
' Appears, on Morven's lonely shore. 
Dim-gleaming through imperftcl lore, 
The Son of Fingal ; such was blind 
Mrconidcs of ampler mind ; 
Such Milton, to the fountain hdd 
Of glory by Urania led ! 

1S24. 

XXVIII. 

cave of staffa. 
W^E saw, but surely, in the motley crowd, 
Not One of us has felt the far-famed sight. 
How could we feel it ? each the other'6 
blight, 
i Hurried and hurrying, volatile and loud. 



4o6 



FORMS OF FHF LMAGIA'ATIOX. 



O for those motions only that invite 
Tiie Ghost of Fingal to his tuneful Cave 
By the breeze entered, and wave after wave 
Softly embosomini; the timid light ! 
And by one Votary who at will might stand 
dazing and take into his mind and heart, 
With undi^tracted reverence, the effect 
Of those proportions where the almighty 

hand 
That made the worlds, the sovereign Arch- 
itect, 
Has deigned to work as if with human Art 1 



CAVE OF STAFFA. 
AFTER THE CROWD HAD DEPARTED 

Thanks for the lessons of this Spot— fit 

school 
For the presumptuous thoughts that would 

assign 
Mechanic laws to agency divine ; 
And, measuring heaven by earth, would 

over-rule 
Infinite Power. The pillared vestibule. 
Expanding yet precise, the roof embowed. 
Might seem designed to humble man, when 

proud 
Of his best workmanship by plan and tool. 
Down-bearing with his whole Atlantic 

weight 
Of tide and tempest on the Structure's base, 
And flashing to that Structure's topmost 

height, 
Ocean has proved its strength, and of its 

grace 
In calms is conscious, finding for his freight 
Of softest music some responsive place. 

XXX. 

CAVE OF STAFFA. 

Ye shadowy Beings, that have rights and 

claims 
In every cell of Fingal's mystic Grot, 
Where are ye? Driven or venturing to the 

spot, 
Our fathers glimpses caught of your thin 

Frames, 
And, by your mien and bearing, knew your 

names ; 
And they could hear his ghostly song who 

trod 
Earth, till the flesh lay on him like a load, 
While he struck his desolate iiarp without 

hopes or aims. 
Vanished ye are, but subject to recall ; 



Why keep we else the instincts whose dread 

law 
Ruled here of yore, till wliat men felt they 

saw. 
Not by black arts but magic natural ! 
If eyes be still sworn vassals of belief. 
Yon light shapes forth a Lard, that shade a 

Chief. 

XXXI. 

FLOWERS ON THE TOP OF THE PILLARS 
AT THE ENTRANCE OF THE CAVE. 

Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, 
Children of Summer ! Ye fresh Flowers 

that brave 
What Summer here escapes not, the fierce 

wave, 
And whole artillery of the western blast^ 
Battering the Temple's front, its long-drawn 

nave 
Smitmg, as if each moment were their last. 
But ye, bright P'lowers, on frieze and archi- 
trave 
Survive, and once again the Pile stands 

fast: 
Calm as the Universe, from specular towers 
Of heaven contemplated by Spirits pure 
With mute astonishment, it stands sustained 
Through every part in symmetry, to enduie. 
Unhurt, the assault of Time with all i'lis 

hours, 
As the supreme Artificer ordained. 

XXXII. 

lONA. 

On to lona ! — What can she afford 

To xis save matter for a thoughtful sigh, 

Heaved over ruin with stability 

In urgent contrast ? To diffuse the Word 

(Thy Paramount, mighty Nature! and 

Time's Lord; 
Her Temples rose, 'mid pagan gloom ; but 

v/hy, 
Even for a moment, has our verse deplored 
Their wrongs, since they fulfilled their des- 
tiny ? 
And when, subjected to a common doom 
Of mutability, those farfamed Piles 
Shall disappear from both the sister Isles, 
lona's Saints, forgetting not past days, 
Garlands shall wear of amaranthine bloom. 
While lieaven's vast sea of voices chants 
their praise. 



POEMS 0.F THE IMAGINATION. 



407 



xxxin. 

lONA. 

(upon landing.) 

How sad a welcome ! To each voyager 
Some ragged child liolds up for sale a store 
Of wave-worn pebbles, pleading on the 

shore 
vVhereonce came monk and nun with gentle 

stir, 
Blessings to give, news ask, or suit prefer. 
Yet is yon neat trim church a grateful speck 
Of novelty amid the sacred wreck 
Strewn far and wide. Think, proud Phi- 
losopher ! 
Fallen though she be, this Glory of the 

west. 
Still on her sons the beams of mercy shine ; 
And " hopes, perhaps more heavenly bright 

than thine, 
A grace by thee unsought and unpossest, 
A ifaith more fixed, a rapture more divine, 
Shall gild their passage to eternal rest." 

XXXIV. 

THE BLACK STONES OF lONA. 

[See Martin's Voyage among the Western 
Isles.] 

Here on their knees men swore : the stones 

were black. 
Black in the people's minds and words, yet 

they 
Were at that time, as now, in color gray. 
But what is color, if upon the rack 
Of conscience souls are placed by deeds that 

lack 
Concord with oaths ? What differ night and 

day 
Then, when before the Perjured on his way 
Hell opens, and the heavens in vengeance 

crack 
Above his head uplifted in vain prayer 
To Saint, or Fiend, or to the Godhead 

whom 
He had insulted — Peasant, King, or Thane ? 
Fly where the culprit may, guilt meets a 

doom ; 
And, from invisible worlds at need laid 

bare. 
Come hnks for social order's awful chain. 



Homeward we turn. Isle of Columba's 

Cell, 
Where Christian piety's soul-cheering spark 



(Kindled from Heaven between the light 

and dark 
Of time) shone like the morning-star, fare- 
well !— 
And fare thee well, to Fancy visible, 
Remote St. Kilda, lone and loved sea-mark 
For many a voyage made m her swift bark, 
When with more hues than in the rainbow 

dwell 
Thou a mysterious intercourse dost hold. 
Extracting from clear skies and air serene. 
And out of sun-bright waves, a lucid veil. 
That thickens, spreads, and, mingling fold 

with fold, 
Makes known, when thou no longer cansl 

be seen. 
Thy whereabout, to warn the approaching 
sail. 



GREENOCK. 

Per me si va nella Cittk dolente. 

We have not passed into a doleful City, 
We who were led to-day down a grim dell, 
By some too boldly named " the Jaws of 

Hell : " 
Where be the wretched ones, the sights for 

pity .? 
These crowded streets resound no plaintive 

ditty :— 
As from the hive where bees in summer 

dwell, 
Sorrow seems here excluded ; and that 

knell, 
It neither damps the gay, nor checks tlie 

witty. 
Alas I too busy Rival of old Tyre, 
Whose merchants Princes were, whose decks 

were thrones ; 
Soon may the punctual sea in vain respire 
To serve thy need, in union with that Clyde 
Whose nursling current brawls o'er mossy 

stones, 
The poor, the lonely, herdsman's joy and 

pride. 



" There ! " said a Stripling, pointing with 

meet pride 
Towards a low roof with green trees half 

concealed, 
" Is Mosgiel Farm ; and that's the very 

field "^ 
Whore Burns ploughed up the Daisy." Fai 

and wide 



4o8 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



A plain below stretched seaward, while, 

descried 
Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran rose ; 
And, by that simple notice, the repose 
Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified. 
Beneath "the random Held of clod or 

stone " 
Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower 
Near the lark's nest, and in their natural 

hour 
Have passed away ; less happy than the 

One 
That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to 

prove 
The tender charm of poetry and love. 

xxxvin. 

THE RIVER EDEN, CUMBERLAND. 

Eden ! till now thy beauty had I viewed 
By glimpses only, and confess with shame 
That verse of mine, whate'cr its varying 

mood, 
Repeats but once the sound of thy sweet 

name : 
Yet fetched from Paradise that honor came, 
Rightfully borne; for Nature gives thee 

flowers 
That have no rivals among British bowers ; 
And thy bold rocks are worthy of their 

fame. 
Measuring thy course, fair Stream! at 

Ijngth I pay 
To my life's neighbor dues of neighbor- 
hood ; 
But I have traced thee on thy winding way 
With pleasure sometimes by tiiis thought 

restrained, — 
For things far off we toil, while many a 

good 
Not sought, because too near, is never 

gained. 

XXXIX. 

monument of MRS. HOWARD 

(by Nollekens.) 

IN WETHERAL CHURCH, NEAR CORBY, 
ON THE HANKS OF THE EDEN. 

Stretched on the dying Mother's lap, lies 

dead 
Her new-born Babe ; dire ending of bright 

hope I 
But Sculpture here, with the divinest scope 
Of luminous faith, heavenward hath raised 

that head 



So patiently ; and through one hand lias 

spread 
A touch so tender ffir the insensate Child — 
(Eartli's lingering love to parting reconciled. 
Brief parting, for the spirit is all but fled)— 
That we, who contemplate the turns of life 
Through this still medium, are consoled and 

cheered ; 
Feel with the Mother, think the severed 

Wife 
Is less to be lamented than revered ; 
And own that Art, triumpliant over strife 
.\nd pain, hath powers to Eternity endeared, 

XL, 
SUGGESTED BY THE FOREGOING. 

Tranquillity ! the sovereign aim wert 

thou 
In heathen schools of philosophic lore; 
Heart-stricken by stern destiny of yore 
The Tragic Muse thee served with thought- 
ful vow ; 
And what of hope Elysium could allow 
Was fondly seized by Sculpture, to restore 
Peace to the Mourner, But when He v^ho 

wore 
The crown of thorns around the bleeding 

brow 
Warmed our sad being with celestial light. 
Then Arts which still had drawn a softening 

grace 
From shadowy fountains of the Infmite, 
Communed witli that Idea face to face : 
And move around it now as planets run. 
Each in its orbit round the central Sun. 

XLI. 
NUNNFRY, 

The floods are roused, and will not soon be 
weary ; 

Down from the Pennine Alps * how fierce- 
ly sweeps 

Cro(;lin, the stately Eden's tributary ! 

He raves, or through some moody passago 
creeps 

Plotting new nii-.chief — out again he leaps 

Into broad light, und sends, through regions 
airy, 

That voice which soothed the Nuns while on 
the steeps 

riiey knelt in prayer, or sang to blissful 
Mary. 

Tliat union ceased : tlien, cleaving easy walks 



* The chain of Crossfell. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



409 



Through crags, and smoothing paths beset 

with clanger, 
Came htudious Taste ; and many a pensive 

stranger 
Dreams on the banks, and to the river talks. 
Wliat change shall happen next to Nunnery 

Dell? 
Canal, and Viaduct, and Railway, tell ! 

XLII. 
STEAMBOATS, VIADUCTS, AND RAILWAYS. 

Motions and Means, on land and sea at 

war 
With old poetic feeling, not for this, 
Sliall ye, by Poets even, be judged amiss ! 
Nor shall your presence, howsoe'er it mar 
The loveliness of Nature, prove a bar 
To the Mind's gaining that prophetic sense 
OF future change, that point of vision, whence 
May be discovered wiiat in soul ye are. 
In spite of all that beauty may disown 
Inyour har^h features. Nature doth em- 
brace 
Her lawful offspring in Man's art ; and 

Time, 
Pleased with your triumphs o'er his brother 

Space, 
Accepts from your bold hands the proffered 

crov/n 
Of hops, and smiles on you with cheer sul> 
lime. 



THE MONUMENT COMMONLY CALLED 
LONG MEG AND HER DAUGHTERS, 
NEAR THE RIVER EDEN. 

h. WEIGHT of awe, not easy to be borne, 
Fell suddenly upon my Spirit — cast 
From the dread bosom of the unknown past, 
Wlien first I saw that family forlorn. 
Speak Thou, whose massy strength and 

stature scorn 
The power of years — pre-eminent, and 

placed 
Apart, to overliHjk the circle vast — 
Speak, Giant-mother ! tell it to the Morn 
While she dispels the cumbrous shades of 

Night ; 
Let the Moon hear, emerging from a cloud ; 
At whose behest uprose on British ground 
That Sistethood, in hieroglyphic round 
Forth-sliadowing, some have deemed, the 

infinite, 
The inviolable God, that tames the proud ! 



LOWTHER. 

TowTHER ! in thy majestic Pile are seen 

Catlicdral i)omp and grace, in apt accord 

With tlie baronial castle's sterner miea ; 

Union significant of God adored, 

And charters won and guarded by the sword 

Ot ancient honor ; whence that goodly state 

Of polity which wise men venerate. 

And will maintain, if God his help afford. 

Hourly the democratic torrent swells ; 

For airy promises and hopes suborned 

The strength of backward-looking thoughts 

is scorned. 
F.ill if ye must, ye Towers and Pinnacles, 
With what ye symbolize; authentic Story 
Wiil say. Ye disappeared with England's 

Glory ! 

XLV. 

TO THE EARL OF LONSDALE 

" Magistratus inclicat viruin." 

Lonsdale ! it were unworthy of a Guest, 
Whose heart with gratitude to thee inclines, 
If he should speak, by fancy touched, of 

signs 
On thy .Abode harmoniously imprest. 
Yet he unmoved with wishes to attest 
How in tiiy mind and moral frame agree 
Fortitude, and that Christian Charity 
Which, filling, consecrates the human lireast. 
And if the Motto on thy 'scutcheon teach 
With truth, " The Magistracy shows 

THE Man ; " 
That searching test thy public course has 

stood ; 
As will be owned alike by bad and good, 
Soon as the measuring of life's little span 
Shall place thy virtues out of Envy's reach. 



XLVI. 

THE SOMNAMr>ULIST. 

List, ye who pass by Lyulph's Tower * 

At eve ; how softly then 
Doth .-Xira-force, that torrent hoarse. 

Speak from the woody glen I 
Fit music for a solemn vale ! 

* A pleasure-house built by the late Diike ol 
Norfolk upon the banks of Ullswiter. F'orcb 
IS the word used in the Lake District for Wat«r- 
fall. 



4IO 



rOEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



And holier seems the ground 
To him who catclies on the gale 
The spirit of a mournful tale, 

Embodied m the sound. 

Not far from that fair site, whereon 

The Pleasure-house is reared, 
As story says, in antique days 

A stern-brow'd house appeared ; 
Foil to a Jewel rich in light 

There set, and guarded well ; 
Cage for a Bird of plumage bright, 
Sweet-voiced, nor wisliing for a flight 

Beyond her native dell. 

To win this bright Bird from her cage, 

To make this Gem their own, 
Came Barons bold, with store of gold, 

And Knights of high renown ; 
But one She prized, and only one ; 

Sir Eglamore was he ; 
Full happy season, when was known. 
Ye Dales and Hills ! to you alone 

Their mutual loyalty — 

Known chiefly, Aira ! to thy glen, 

Thy brook, and bowers of holly ; 
Where Passion caught what Nature taught. 

That all but love is folly ; 
Where P'act with Fancy stooped to play ; 

Doubt came not, nor regret — 
To trouble hours that winged their ray, 
As if tlirough an immortal day 

Whose sun could never set. 

But in old times Love dwelt not long 

Sequester'd with repose ; 
Best throve the fire of chaste desire. 

Fanned by the breath of foes. 
" A conquering lance is beauty's test, 

And proves the Lover true ;" 
So spake Sir Eglamore, and pressed 
The drooping Emma to his breast, 

And looked a blind adieu. 

They parted. — Well with him it fared 

Through wide-spread regions errant ; 
A knight of proof in love's behoof. 

The thirst of fame his warrant : 
And She her happiness can build 

On woman's quiet hours ; 
Though faint, compared with spear and 

shield, 
The solace beads and masses vidd, 

And needlework and fiowers. 

Vet blest was Emma when she heard 
Her Champion's praise recounted \ 



Though brain would swim, and eyes groii 
dim, 

And high her blushes mounted; 
Or when a bold heroic lay 

She warbled from full heart ; 
Delighted blossoms for the May 
Of absence ! but they will not stay. 

Born only to depart. 

Hope wanes with her, while lustre fili» 

Whatever path he chooses; 
As if his orb, that owns no curb, 

Received the light hers loses. 
He comes not back ; an ampler space 

Requires for nobler deeds ; 
He ranges on from place to place, 
Till 'f his doings is no trace. 

But what her fancy breeds. 

His fame may spread, but in the past 

Her spirit finds its centre j 
Clear sigiit She has of what he was, 

And that would now content her. 
" Still is he my devoted Knight .-' " 

The tear in answer flov/s ; 
Month falls on month with heavier weight. 
Day sickens round her, and the night 

Is empty of repose. 

In sleep She sometimes walked abroad. 

Deep sighs with quick words 1)1( nding, 
Like that pale Queen whose ham's are seen 

With fancied spots contending ; 
But slic is innocent of blood, — 

The moon is not more jwrc 
That shines aloft, while through tli'- wood 
She thrids her way, the .sounding Flood 

Her mclanclioly lure! 

While 'mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe, 

And owls alone are waking. 
In white arrayed, glides on the Maid 

The downward pathway taking. 
That leads her to the torrent's side 

And to a holly bower ; 
By whom on this stii! night descried .' 
By whom in that lone place espied? 

By thee, Sir Eglamore ! 

A wandering Ghost, so thinks the Kmght, 

His coming stc]) has thwarted, 
Beneath the boughs that heard their vows, 

Within whose shade they parted. 
Hush, hush, the busy Sleeper see ! 

Perplexed her fingers seem. 
As if they from the holly tree 
Green twigs would pluck, as rapidly 

Flung from her to the stream. 



POEMS OF THE fMAGIXATION. 



41 



What means the Spectre ? Why intent 

To violate the Tree, 
Thought P^glamore, by wliicli I swore 

Unfading constancy ? 
Here am I, and to-morrow's sun, 

To her I left, shall prove 
That bliss is ne'er so surely won 
\s when a circuit has been run 

Of valor, truth, and love. 

So from the spot whereon he stood, 

He moved with stealthy pace ; 
And, drawing nigh, with his living eye. 

He recognized th? face ; 
And whispers cauglit, and speeches small, 

Some to the green-leaved tree, 
Some muttered to the torrent-fall ; — 
" Roar on, and bring him with thy call ; 

I heard, and so may He ! " 

Soul -shattered was the Knight, nor knew 

Jf Emma's Ghost it were, 
Or boding Shade, or if the Maid 

Her very self stood there. 
He touched ; what followed who shall tell ? 

The soft toucli snapped the thread 
Of slumber — shrieking back she fell, 
And the Stream whirled iier down tlie dell 

Along its foaming bed. 

In plunged the Knight ! — when on firm 
ground 

The rescued Maiden lay. 
Her eyes grew bright with blissful light, 

Confusion passed away ; 
She heard, ere to the throne of grace 

Her faithful Spirit flew. 
His voice— beheld his speaking face ; 
And, dying, from his own embrace, 

She felt that he was true. 

So was he reconciled to life : 

Brief words may speak the rest ; 
Within the dell he buik a cell. 

And there was Sorrow's guest ; 
In hermits' weeds repose he found. 

From vain temptations free, 
Beside the torrent dwelling — bound 
By one deep heart-controlling sound, 

And awed to piety. 

Wild stream of Aira, hold 'thy course, 

Nor fear memorial lays, 
Where clouds that spread in solemn shade. 

Are edged with golden rays ! 
Dcir art thou to the light of heaven, 

Though minister of sorrow j 



Sweet is thy voice at pensive even ; 
And thou, in lovers' hearts forgiven, 
Shalt take thy place with Yarrow 1 



TO CORDELIA M , HALLSTEAI.'S, ULLS- 

WATER 

Not in the mines beyond the western main, 
Ydu say, Cordelia, was the metal sought, 
Which a fine skill, of Indian growth, ha.s 

wrought 
Into this flexible yet faithful Chain ; 
Nor is it silver of romantic Spain, 
But from our loved Helvellyn's depths was 

brought, 
Uur own domestic mountain. Thing and 

thought 
Mix strangely; trifles light, and partly vain. 
Can prop, as you have learnt, our nobler 

being . 
Yes, Lady, while about yf)ur neck is wound 
(Your casual glance oft meeting) this brigiit 

cord. 
What witchery, for pure gifts of inward 

seeing. 
Lurks in it. Memory's Helper, Fancy's 

Lord, 
For precious tremblings in your bosom 

found ! 



Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 

To pace the ground, if path be there oi 

none. 
While a fair region round the traveller lies 
Which he forbears again to look upon ; 
Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene. 
The work of Fancy, or some happy tone 
Of meditation, slipping in between 
The beauty coming and the beauty gone. 
Hf Thought and Love desert us, from that 

day 
Let us break off all commerce with the 

Muse : 
With rhought and Love companions of 

our way, * 

Wl-.ate'er the senses take or may refuse. 
The Mind's internal heaven shall shed hex 

dews 
Of inspiration on the humblest lay. 



<tI2 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY, 

" Whv, William, on that old gray stone, 
Thus for the len,^th of half a day, 
Why, William, sit you thus alone, 
And dream your time away ? 

Where are your books? — that light be- 
queathed 
To P>emgs else forlorn and blind ! 
Up ! up ! and drink the spirit breathed 
From dead men to their kind 

You look round on your Mother Earth, 
As if she for no purpose bore you ; 
As if you were her first-born birth, 
And none had lived before you I " 

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, 
When life was sweet, 1 knew not why. 
To me my good friend Matthew spake, 
And thus 1 made reply. 

"The eye— it cannot choose but see ' 
Wc cannot bid the ear be still ; 
Our bodies feel, where'er they be, 
Against or with our will. 

Nor less I deem that there are Powers 
Which of themselves our minds imjircss ; 
That we can feed this mind of ours 
In a wise jiahsiveness. 

Think'you, 'mid all this mighty sum 
Of things forever sjieaking, 
That nothing of itself will come. 
But we mu* still be seeking ! 



— Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, 
Convirsing as I may, 
I sit upon this old gray stone, 
And dream my time away." 
179S. 



II. 



THE TABLES TURNED. 

AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUB- 
JECT. 

Up ! up! my Friend, and quit your books; 
Or surely you'll grow double : 
Up! up! my Friend, and clear yowr looks; 
\\ hy all this toil and trouble t 

The sun, above the mountain's head, 

A freshening lustre mellow 

Through all the long green fields has spreatJ. 

His first sweet evening yellow. 

r^ooks ! 'tis a dull and endless strife ; 
Come, hear the woodland linnet, 
How sweet his music ! on my life, 
I There's more of wisdom in it. 

I And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! 
He, too, is no mean preacher: 
Come forth into the light of things, 
Let Nature be yt)ur teacher. 

She has a v/orld of ready wealtl^. 
Our minds and liearts to bless — 
Spontaneous wisdt)m breathed by health, 
Truth breathed by cheerfulness 

One impulse from a vernal wood 
May teach you more of man, 
Of moral evil and of good, 
Than all the sages can. 

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings ; 
Our meddling intellect 
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things. 
We ni'Arder to dissect. 

r^nough of Science and of Art ; 
Close up those barren leaves; 
Come forth, and bring with you a hwkit 
That watches and receives. 
179S. 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



4T3 



LINES 



WRITTEN 
SPRING. 



IN EARLV 



I TiEARD a thousand blended notes, 
While in a grove I sate reclined, 
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
Bring sad thoughts to the niind. ' T • 

To her fair works did Nature link 
The human soul that through me ran ; 
And much it grieved my heart to think 
What man has made of man. 

Through primrose tufts, in that green 

bovver, 
The periwinkle trailed its wreathes ; 
And 'tis my faith that every flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes- 

The birds around me hopped and pliiyed. 
Their thoughts I cannot measure- — 
But the least motion which they maile, 
It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 

The budding twigs spread out their f:in, 
To catch the l)reezy air ; 
And I must think, do ail I can. 
That there was pleasure there. 

If this Ijelief from heaven be sent. 
If such be Nature's holy jilan. 
Have I not reason to lament 
Wiiat man has made of man ? 
1798. 



A CHARACTER. 

I MARVEL how Nature could ever find 

space 
I'or so many strange contrasts in one luiman 

face : 
There's thought and no thought, and there's 

paleness and bloom 
And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and 

glo(jm. 

There's weakness, and strength both redun- 
dant and vain ; 

Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain 

Could pierce through a temper that's soft to 
ilisease, 

Would he rational peace — a philosopher's 



There's indifference, alike when he fails or 

succeeds, 
And attention full ten times as much as 

there needs ; 
Pride where there's no envy, there's scamuch 

of joy ; 
And mildness, and spirit both forward and 

coy. 

There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident 

stare 
Of shame scarcely seeming to know that 

she's there, 
There's virtue, the title it surely may claim. 
Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy 

the name. 

This picture from nature may seem to de- 
part, 

Yet the Man would at onre run away with 
your heart ; 

And I for five centuries right gladly would 
be 

Such an odd, such a kind happy creature as 
he. 
iSoo. 



TO MY SISTER. 

It is the first mild day of March : 
Each minute sweeter than before 
The redbreast sings from tlie tall larch 
That stands beside our door 

There is a blessing in the air. 
W^hich seems a sense of joy to yi.ld 
To the bare trees, and mountains bare, 
And grass in the green field 

My sister ! ('tis a wish of mine) 
Now that our morning meal is done, 

j Make haste, your morning task resign ; 

1 Come forth and feel the sun 

j Edward will come with you ;— and. piay, 
! Put on with sjieed your woodland dress ; 
I And bring no book : for this one day 
. We'll give to idleness 

No joyless forms shall regulate 
I Our living calendar : 
I We from to-day, my Friend, will date 
I The opening of the year. 

Love, now a universal birth, 
From heart to heart Is stealing, 
From eart4i to man from ni.m to earth* 
1 — It is the hour of feeling. 



4M 



POEMS OF SENTIMPl^TT AND REFLECTTOK 



One moment now may give us more 
Than years ot toilini:,' reason : 
Our minds shall drink at every pore 
The spirit of the season. 

Some silent laws our hearts will make, 
Which they shall long obey : 
We for the year to come may take 
Our temper from to-day. 

And from the blessed power that rolls 
About, below, above, 
We'll frame the measure of our souls : 
They shall be tuned to love 

Then come, my Sister ! come, I pray. 
With speed put on your woodland dress ; 
And bring no book : for this one day 
We'll give to idleness. 



VI. 

SIMON let:, THE OLD HUNTSMAN; 

WITH AN IN'CIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS 
CONCERNED. 

In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, 
An old Man dwells, a little man,— 
'Tis said he once was tall 
Full five and-thirty years he lived 
A running huntsman merry ; 
And still the centre of his check 
Is red as a ripe cherry. 

No man like him the horn could sound. 

And hill and valley rang with glee 

When Echo bandied, round and round, 

Tiie halloo of Simon Lee. 

In tliose proud days, he little cared 

For husbandry or tillage ; 

To blither tasks did Simon rouse 

I'he sleepers of the village. 

He all the country could outrun, 

Could leave both man and horse behind ; 

And often, ere the chase was done, 

He reeled, and was stone-blind. 

And still there's sometlung in the world 

At which his heart rejoices; 

For when the chiming hounds are out, 

He dearly loves their voices ! 

But, oh the heavy change ! — bereft 

Of health, strength, 'friends, and kindred, 

see ! 
Old Simon to the world is left 



In liveried poverty. 

His Master's dead, — and no one now 

Dwells in the Hall of Ivor ; 

Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead ; 

He is the sole survivor. 

And he is lean and he is sick ; 

His body, dwindled and awry, 

Rests upon ankles swollen and thick; 

His legs are thin and dry. 

One prop he has, and only one: 

His wife, an aged woman, 

Lives with him, near the waterfall : 

Upon the village Common. 

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, 
Not twenty paces from the door, 
A scrap of land they have, but they 
Are poorest of the poor. 
This scrap of land he from the heath 
Enclosed when he was stioiigcr ; 
But what to tliem avails the land 
Whicii he can till no longer .'' 

Oft, working by her Husband's side, 

Ruth does what Simon c.ii.rot do; 

For she, with scanty cause lor pr.de, 

Is stouter of the two. 

And, though you with voiir ufmo't skiL 

From labor could not ween tliem. 

'Tis httle, very little— all 

That they can do between them. 

Few months of life has he in slrre 

As he to you will tell. 

For still, the more he works, the more 

Do his weak ankles swell. 

My gentle Reader, I perceive 

How patiently you've waited. 

And now I fear that you expect 

Some tale will be related. 

O Reader ! had you in your mind 

Such stores as silent thought can bring. 

O gentle Reader ! you would lind 

A tale in everything. 

What more I have to say is short, 

And you must kindly take it* 

It is no tale ; but, sliould you think, 

Perhaps a tale you'll make it. 

One summei-day I chanced to see 
Tills eld Man doing all he could 
To unearth the root of an old tree, 
A stump of rotten wood 
The mattock tottered in his hand; 
So vain was his endeavor, 
That at the root of tiie old tree 
He mipht have worked forever. 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



4'5 



♦* You're overtasked, good Simon Lee, 

Give me your tool," to him I said ; 

And at the word right gladly he 

Received my proffered aid. 

I struck, and with a smgle blow 

The tangled root 1 severed, 

At which the poor old Man so long 

\nd vainly had endeavored. 

The tears into his eyes were brought, 
And thanks and praises seemed to run 
So fast out of his heart, I thought 
They never would have done. 
— I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds 
With coldness still returning j 
Alas ! the gratitude of men 
Ilath oftener left me mourning, 
1798. 



WRITTEN IN GERMANY, 

ON ONE OF THE COLDEST D VYS OF THB 
CENTURY. 

The Reader must be apprised, that the Stoves 
ill Nortli Germany generally have the im- 
pression of a galloping horse upon them, this 
being part of the Brunswick Arms. 

A PLAGUE on your languages, German and 

Norse ! 
Let me have the song of the kettle ; 
.And the tongs and the poker, instead of 

that horse 
That gallops away with such fury and force 
On this dreary dull plate of black metal. 

See that Fly,— a disconsolate creature ! per- 
haps 

A child of the field or the grove ; 

And, sorrow for him ! the dull treacherous 
heat 

Has seduced the poor fool from his winter 
retreat. 

And he creeps to the edge of my stove. 

Alas ! how he fumbles about the domains 

Which this comfortless oven environ ! 

He cannot find out in what track he must 

crawl, 
Now back to the tiles, then in search of the 

wall, 
And now on the brink of the iron. 

Stock-still there he stands hke a traveler be- 

mazed . 
The best of his skill he has tried : 



His feelers, methinks, I can see him put 

forth 
To the east and the west, to the south and 

the north ; 
But he finds neither guide-post nor guide. 

His spindles sink under him, foot, leg, and 

thigh 1 
His eyesight and hearing are lost ! 
Between life and death his blood freezes and 

thaws ; 
And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky 

gauze 
Are glued to his sides by the frost. 

No brother, no mate has he near him— 

while I 
Can draw warmth from the cheek of my 

Love ; 
As blest and as glad, in this desolate gloom, 
As if green summer grass were the floor oi 

my room. 
And woodbines were hanging above. 

Yet, God is my witness, thou small helplesj 

Thing ! 
Thy life 1 would gladly sustain 
Till summer come up from the south, and 

with crowds 
Of thy brethren a march thou should'st 

sound through the clouds, 
And back to the forests again I 
1799. 



A POET'S EPITAPH. 

A RT thou a Statist in the van 
Of public conflicts trained and bred ? 
— First learn to love one living man ; 
Then may.'st thou think upon the dead 

A Lawyer art thou ? — draw not nigh ! 
Go, carry to some filter place 
The keenness of that practised eye, 
The hardness of that sallow face. 

.Art thou a Man of purple cheer? 
k rosy Man, right plump to s^e .' 
Approach ; yet. Doctor, not too new, 
This grave no cushion is for thee. 

Or art thou one of gallant pride, 
A Soldier and no man of chaff ? 
Welcome ! — but lay thy sv/ord aside, 
And 'ean upon a peasant's staff. 



POEMS OF SENTIMEN-r AND REFLECTION'. 



Physician art thou ? one all eyes, 
Philosopli-^r ! a fingering slave, 
Ona th-.t would peep and botun'ze 
Upon his mother's grave? 
Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, 
O turn aside, — and take, I pray, 
That he below may rest in peacf, 
Thy ever-dwindling soul, away ! 

A Moralist perchance appears ; 
Led, Heaven knows how ! to this poor sod : 
And he has neither eyes nor ears ; 
Himself his world, and his own God ; 

One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling \ 
Nor form, nor ieeling, great or small ; 
A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, 
An intellectual All-in-all ! 

Shut close the door ; press down the latch ; 
Sleep in thy intellectual crust ; 
Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch 
Near this unprofitable dust. 

But who is he, with modest looks, 
And clad in homely russet brown ? 
He murmurs near the running brooks 
A music sweeter than their own. 

He is retired as noontide dew, 
Or fountain in a noon-day grove ; 
And you must love him, ere to you 
He will seem worthy of your love. 

The outward shows cf sky and earth, 
Of hill and vallev, he has viewed ; 
And impulses of deeper birth 
Have come to him in solitude. 
In common things that round us lie 
Some random truths he can nnpart, — 
The harvest of a quiet eye 
That broods and sleeps on his own heart. 
But he is weak ; both Man and Boy, 
Hath been an idler in the land ; 
Contented if he might enjoy 
The things which others understand. 
— Come hither in thy hour of strength ; 
('ome, weak as is a breaking wave ! 
Here stretch thy body at full length ; 
Or build thy house upon this grave ! 
1799. 



TO THE DAISY. 

Bright Flower! whose home is every- 
where, 
Bold in maternal Nature's care, 



And all the long year through the heir 

Of joy or sorrow — 
Meihinks that there abides in thee 
Some concord with humanity, 
Given to no other flower I see 

The forest thorough ! 

Is it that Man is soon deprest ? 

A tlioughtless thing ! who, once unblest, 

Does little on his memory rest, 

Or on his reason, 
.^.nd Thou would'st teach him how to finr^ 
A shelter under every wind, 
A hope for times that are unkind 

And every season ? 

Thou wander'st the wide world about, 
Uhcheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt 
With friends to greet thee, or without, 

Yet pleast-d and willing; 
Meek, yielding to the occasion's call, 
And all things suffering from all, 
Thy function apostolical 

In peace fulfilling. 
1803. 



MATTHEW. 



In the School of is a tablet, ov. which 

are inscribed, in gilt letters, the names of 
the several jiersons who have been Scliool 
masters there since tliC fouiulatitm of the 
School, with tl»e time at whicli tliey entered 
upon and quitted their office. Opposite to 
one of those Names the Author wrote the 
followuig lines. 

If Nature, for a favorite child. 
In thee hath tempered so her clay, 
That every hour thy heart runs wild. 
Yet never once doth go astray 

Read o'er these lines ; and then review 
This tablet, that thus humbly rears 
In such diversity of hue 
Its history of two hundred years. 

— When through this little wreck of fame, 
Cipher and syllable ! thine eye 
Has travelled down to Matthew's name, 
Pause with no common sympathy. 

And, if a sleeping tear should wake, 
Then l^e it neither checked nor stayed : 
For Matthew a rerjuest I make 
Which for himself he had not made. 



fOEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



417 



Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, 
Is silent as a standing pool ; 
P'ar from the chimney's merry roar, 
And murmur of the village school. 

The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs 
Of one tired out with fun and madness ; 
The tears whicli caine to Matthew's eyes 
Were tears of light, the dew of gladness. 

Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup 
Of still and serious thought went round, 
It seemed as if he drank it up — 
He felt with spirit so profound. 

—Thou soul of God's best earthly mould ! 
Tlioii liappy Soul ! and can it be 
That tliese two words of glittering gold 
Are all that must remain of thee ? 
1799. 



THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. 

We walked along, while bright and red 
Uprose the morning sun ; 
And Matthew stooped, he looked, and said, 
" 'I he will of God be done ! " 

A village schoolmaster was he, 
With hair of glittering gray ; 
As blithe a man as you could see 
On .. spring holiday. 

And on that morning, tlirough the grass, 
And by the steaming rills, 
We travelled merrily, to pass 
A day among the hills. 

" Our work,'' said I, " was well begun : 
Then, from thy breast what thouglit. 
Beneath so beautiful a sun, 
So sad a sigh was brought ? " 

A second time did Matthew stop 
And fixing still his eye 
Upon the eastern mountain-top, 
To me he made reply ; 

•' Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
Prings fresh into my mind 
A day like this which 1 have left 
Full thirty years behind. 

And just above yon slope of com 
Swell colors, and no other, 
Were in the sky, that April morn. 
Of this the very brother. 



With rod and line I sued the sport 
Which that sweet season gave, 
And, to the church-yard come, stopped short 
Beside my daughter's grave. 

Nine summers had she scarcely seen, 
The pride of all the vale ; 
And then she sang ;— she would have beer, 
A very nightingale. 

Six feet in earth my Emma lay ; 
And yet 1 loved her more, 
For so it seemed, than till that day 
I e'er had loved before. 

And, turning from her grave, I met, 
Beside the church-yard yew, 
A blooming girl, whose hair was wet 
With points of mornmg dew. 

A basket on her head she bare ; 
Her brow was smooth and white; 
To see a child so very fair, 
It was a pure delight I 

No fountain from its rocky cave 
E'er tripped with foot so free ; 
She seemed as happy as a wave 
Tiiat dances on the sea. 

Th^re came from me a sigh of pain 
Which J could ill confine ; 
1 looked at her, and looked again ; 
And did not wish her mine ! " 

Matthew is in his grave, yet now, 
Methinks, I ste him stand, 
As at tliat moment, with a bough 
Of wilding in his hand. 
1799. 

♦ 

xn. 
THE FOUNTAIN. 

A CONVERSATION 

We talked with oj-cn heart, and tongue 
Affectionate and true, 
A pair of friends, though I was young, 
And Matthew seventy-two. 

We lay beneath a spreading oak, 
Beside a mossy seat ; 
And from the turf a fountain broke, 
And gurgled at our feet. 

" Now, Matthew! '' said I, "let us matob 
This water's pleasant ttme 
With some old border-song, or catch 
That ouits a summer's noon ; 



4i8 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Or of the church-clock and tlie chimes 
Sing here beneath the shade, 
That lialf-mad thing of witty rhymes 
Which jou last April made ! " 

In silence Matthew lay, and eyed 
The spring beneath the tree ; 
And thus the dear old Man replied, 
The gray-haired man of glee : 

" No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears; 
How merrily it goes I 
* Twill murmur on a thousand years, 
And flow as now it flows. 

And here, on this delightful day, 
I cannot choose but think 
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay 
IJcside this fountain's brink. 

My eyes are dim with childisli tears 
My heart is idly stirred, 
For the same sound is in my ears 
Which in those days I heard. 

Thus fares it still in our decay : 
And yet the wiser mind 
Mourns less for what age takes away 
Tl\an what it leaves behind. 

The blackbird amfd leafy trees, 
The lark above the hill, 
Let loose their carols when they please. 
Are quiet when they will. 

With Nature never do they wage 
A foolisli strife; they see 
A ha[)py youth, and their old age 
Is beautiful and free : 

But we are pressed by heavy laws ; 
And often, glad no more, 
We wear a face of joy, because 
We have been glad of yore. 

If there be one who need bcmoiin 

His kindred laid m earth. 

The household hearts tiiat were his own ; 

It is the man of mirtli- 

My days, my Friend, are almost gone. 
My life has been approved, 
And many love me ; but by none 
Am I enough beloved." 

*' Now both himself and me he wrongs, 
The man who thus complains ! 
) liv(> :\nd sing my idl.; songs 
Upon these happy plains; 



And, Matthew, for thy children dead 
I'll be a son to thee ! " 
At this lie grasped my hand, and said, 
" Alas ! that cannot be." 

We rose up from the fountain-side , 
And down the smooth descent 
Of the green sheep-track did we glide.- 
And through the wood we went ; 

And, ere we came to Leonard's rock 
He sang those witty rhymes 
About the crazy old cluuch-clock, 
And the bewildered chimes. 
1799. 



XIII. 

PERSONAL TALK, 



Jam not one who much or oft delight 
To season my fireside with personal talk,— 
Of friends, who live within an easy walk, 
Or neighbors, daily, wr-ekly, in my sight: 
And, for my chance-acquaintance, kidiea 

bright. 
Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the 

stalk. 
These all wear out of me, like forms with 

chalk 
Painted on rich men's fleers, for one feast- 
night. 
Better than such discourse doth silence 

long. 
Long, barren silence, square with my de- 
sire ; 
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, 
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire, 
And listen to the flapping of the fl.ime. 
Or kettle whispeiing its f^int undersong. 



" Yet life," you say, " is life; we have seen 

and sec. 
And with a living pleasure we describe ; 
And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe 
The languid mind into activity. 
Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and 

glee 
Are fostered by the comment and the gibe." 
Even be it so : yet still among your tribe. 
Our dnilv world'-S true Worldlings, rank not 

mf- \ 
Children are blest, and powerful ; theil 

world lies 



POEMS OF SRNTTMENT AND REFLECTION. 



4^9 



More justly balanced ; partly at their feet, 

And part far from them : — sweetest melo- 
dies 

Are those that are by distance made more 
sweet ; 

Whose mmd is but the mind of his own 
eyes, 

He is a Slave: the meanest we can meet ! 



in. 

Winjjs have we, — and as far r.s we can go 
Wc may find pleasure • wilderness and 

wood, 
Blank ocean and mere sky, support that 

mood 
Which with the lofty sanctifies the low. 
Dreams, books, arc each a world ; and books, 

we know, 
Are a substantial world, both pure and 

eood : 
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh 

and blood, 
Our pastime and our happiness will c;row. 
T\iere find I personal themes, a plenlcor.s 

store, 
Matter wherein right voluble I am, 
To which I listen with a icady car ; 
Two shall Ixi named, pre-eminentlv dear, — 
The gentle Lady married to tlie Moor ; 
And heavenly Una with her milk-white 

Lamb. 



IV 



Nor can I not believe but that hereby 

Great gains are mine ; for thus 1 live re- 
mote 

From evil-speaking ; rancor, never sought, 

Comes to me not ; malignant truth, or lie. 

Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I 

Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and 
joyous thought : 

And thusfroin day to day my little boat 

J^orks in its harbor, lodging peacenbl)', ^ 
/^Blessings be with tliQiTi, and eternal praise, \ tt 

\yho gave us nobler loves," and nobler ' 
cares — 

The. Poets, 
heirs 

Of . truth and 
lays! 

Oh ! might my name be numbered among 

theirs. Hig 

Then gladly would I end my mortal days. / 
■N. M^His 



nobler 

who on earth have made,jus 
pure delight by hcayenly 



XIV. 

TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND 

(an agriculturist.) 

composed while we were labor 

ING TOGETHER IN HIS PLE.\SUl<r 
GROUND. 

Spade' with which Wilkinson hath tiJJcd 

his lands, 
And shaped these pleasant walks \-\ 

Emont's side, 
Thou art a tool of honor in my hands ; 
I press thee, through the yielding soil, v/: h 

pride. 

Rare master has it been thy lot to know ; 
Long hast Thou served a man to reason 

true ; 
Whose life combines the best of high iiid 

low, 
The laboring many and the resting fewj 

Health, meekness, ardor, quietness secure, 
And industry of body and of mind ; 
And elegant enjoyments, that are pure 
As nature is ; — too pure to be rchncd. 

Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing 
In concord with his river mr.rnuuing by ; 
Or in some silent field, while timid spring 
Is yet uncheered by other mmstrelsy. 

Who shall inherit thee when death has laid 
Low in the darksome cell thine own dear 

lord? 
That man will have a trophy, humble Spadel 
A trophy nobler than a conqueror's sword. 

If he be one that feels, with skill to part 
False praise from true, or greater from the 

less. 
Thee will he welcome to his hand and 

heart. 
Thou monument of peaceful happiness I 



will not dread with Thee a toilsrmc 

day — 
Thee his loved servant, his inspiring muto ! 
And, when thou art past service, worn away. 
No dull oblivious nook shall hide thy fate. 

His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn; 

An heir-loom in his cottage wilt thou be : — 

h will he hang thee up, well pleased to 

adorn 

rustic chimney with the last of Thee I 

lS04. 



420 



POEhfS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION: 



XV. 



A NIGHT THOUGHT. 

Lo! vvhere the Moon along the sky 
Sails with hei happy destiny ; 
Oft is she hid from mortal eye 

Or dimly seen, 
But when the clouds asunder fly 

How bright her mien I 

Far different we — a froward race, 
'J'housands though rich in Fortimc'b grace 
With clierished sullenness of pace 

Their way pursue, 
Ingrates who wear a smileless face 

The whole year through 

If kindred humors e'er would make 
My spirit droop for drooping's sake, 
From Fancy following in thy wake, 

Bright ship of heaven ! 
A counter impulse let me take 

And be forgiven. 



XVI. 

INCIDENT 

CHARACTERISTIC OF A FAVORITE DOG. 

On his morning rounds the Master 
Goes to learn how all things fare, 
Searches pasture after pasture. 
Sheep and cattle eyes with care : 
And, for silence or for talk. 
He hath comrades in his walk ; 
Four dogs, each pair of difTerent breed, 
Distinguished two for scent, and two for 
speed. 

See a hare before him started ! 
— OfTthey fiy in earnest chase; 
Every dog is eager-hearted, 
All the four are in the race : 
And the hare whom they pursue 
Knows from instinct what to do ; 
Her hope is near : no turn she makes; 
But, like an arrow, to the river takes- 

Deep the river was and crusted 
Thinly by a one night's frost ; 
But the nimble Hare hath trusted 
To th'; ice, and safely crost ; 
She hath crost, and without heed 
All are following at full speed. 
When, lo ! the ice, so thinly spread, 
Breaks —and the greyhound, Dart is over- 
head 1 



Better fate have Prince and Swallow— 

See them cleaving to the sport! 
Music has no heart to follow, 
Little Music, she stops short. 
She hath neither wish nor heart. 
Hers is now another part : 
A loving creature she, and brave ! 
And fondly strives her struggling friend t| 
save. 

From the brink her pav/s she stretches, 

Very hands as you would say I 

And aflFiicting moans she fetches, 

As he breaks the ice away. 

For herself she hath no feais, — 

Him alone she sees and hears, — 

Makes efforts with complainings; nor gives 

o'er 
Until her fellow sinks to re-appear no 

more, 
1805. 



XVII. 

TRIBUTE 



TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG 

Lie here, without a record of thy worth, 
Beneath a covering of the common earth ! 
It is not from unwillingness to praise, 
Or want of love, that here no Stone we 

raise ; 
More thou deserv'st ; but this man gives to 

man. 
Brother to brother, this is all we can. 
Vet they to whom thy virtues made thee 

dear 
Shall find thee through all changes of the 

year: 
This Oak points out thy grave ; the silent 

tree 
Will gladly stand a monument of thee. 

We grieved for thee, and wished thy end 

were past ; 
And willingly have laid thee here at last : 
For thou iiadst lived till everything that 

cheers 
In thee had yielded to the weight of years ; 
Extreme old age had wasted thee away, 
And left thee but a glimmering of the day. 
Thy ears were deaf, and feeble were thy 

knees, — 
I saw thee stagger in the summer breeze, 
Too weak to stand against its sportiv* 

breath, 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



421 



And ready for the gentlest stroke of death. 
It came, and we were glad ; yet tears were 

shed ; 
Both man and woman wept when thou wert 

dead, 
Not only for a thousand thoughts that were, 
Old household thoughts, m which thou 

hadst thy share ; 
Br.t for some precious boons vouchsafed to 

thee. 
Found scarcely anywhere in like degree ! 
For love, that comes wherever life and 

sense 
Are given by God, in thee was most intense ; 
A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind, 
A tender sympathy, which did thee bind 
Not only to us Men, but to thy Kind : 
Yea, for thy fellow-brutes in thee we saw 
A soul of love, love's intellect* al law : — 
Hence, if we wept, it was not done in 

shame ; 
Our tears from passion and from reason 

came, , 

And, therefore, shalt thou be an honored 

name. 
1805. 



FIDELITY, 



A BARKING sound the Shepherd hears, 

A cry as of a dog or fox ; 

He halts — and searches with his eyes 

Among the scattered rocks : 

And now at distance can discern 

A stirring in a brake of fern ; 

And instantly a dog is seen. 

Glancing through that covert green. 

The Dog is not of mountain breed ; 
Its motions, too, are wild and shy ; 
With something, as the Shepherd thinks, 
Unusual in its cry ; 
Nor is there any one in sight 
All round, in hollow or on heiglit ; 
Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear ; 
What is the creature doing here ? 

It was a cove, a huge recess. 

That keeps, till June, December's snow; 

A lofty precipice in front, 

A silen* tarn below ! 

Far in die bosom of Ilelvellyn, 

Remote from public road or dvvell'r.g, 

Palhway, or cultivated land ; 

From trace of human ioot or hand. 



There sometimes doth a leaping fish 
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer ; 
The crags repeat the raven's croak, 
In symphony austere ; 
Thither the rainbow comes — the cloud— 
And mists that spread the flying shroud ; 
And sunbeams ; and the sounding blast, 
That, if it could, would hurry past ; 
But that enormous barrier holds it fast. 

Not free from boding thoughts, a while 
The Sheplieid stood \ then makes his way 
O'er rocks and stones, following the Dog 
As quickly as he may; 
Nor far had gone before he found 
A human skeleton on the ground ; 
The appalled Discoverer with a sigh 
Looks round, to learn the history. 

From those abrupt and perilous rocks 

The Man had fallen, that place of fear 1 

At length upon the 5ihepherd's mind 

It breaks, and all is clear ; 

He instantly recalled the name, 

And who he was, and whence he came; 

Remembered, too, the very day 

On which the Traveller passed this way. 

But hear a wonder, for whose sake 

This lamentable tale I tell ! 

A lasting monument of words 

This wonder merits well. 

The Dog, which still was hovering nigh, 

Repeating the same timid crv, 

This Dog, had been through three months' 

space 
A dweller in that savage place. 

Yes, proof was plain that, since the day 

When this ill-fated Traveller died, 

The Dog had watched about the spot, 

Or by his master's side : 

How nourished here through sucii !«>ng 

time 
He knows, who gave that love sublime ; 
And gave ttiat strength of feeling, grear 
Above all human estimate 1 
iSos 



XIX. 

ODE TO DUTY. 

" Jam non consilio bonus, sed more e6 per- 
ductus, ut non tantum recti facere possim, sod 
nisi recti facere non possim." 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God I 
O Duty ! if that name thou love 
Who ai t a light to guide, a rod 



422 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



To check the erring, and reprove ; 
Thou, who art victory and law 
When empty terrors overawe ; 
From vain temptations dost sot free ; 
And cahn'st the weary strife of frail 
humanity ! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 
Be on them ; who, m love ami truth, 
Wiiere no misgiving is, rely 
Ul)on the genial sense of youth ; 
Cilad Hearts ! without reproach or blot ; 
Who do thy work, and know it not : 
Oh ! if througli confidence misplaced 
They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power ! 
around them cast. 

Serene will be our days and bright. 
And happy will our nature be. 
When love is an unerring light, 
And joy its own security. 
And they a blissful course may hold 
Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 
Live in the spirit of this creed ; 
Yet seek thy firm support, according to 
their need. 

I, loving freedom, and untried ; 
No sport of every random gust, 
Yet being to myself a guide, 
Too blindly have reposed my trust : 
And oft, when in my heart was heard 
Thy timely mandate, I deferred 
The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 
But thee I now would serve more strictly, 
if 1 may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul. 

Or strong compunction in me wrought, 

I supplicate for thy control ; 

But in th? quietness of thought : 

Me this unchartered freedom tires, 

1 feel the weight of chance-desires: 

My hopes no more must change their name, 

I long for a repose that ever is the same. 

Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace; 
Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face . 
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds 
And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
Thcu dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
And the most ancient heavens, through 
Thee, are fresh and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful Power \ 
I call tliee ; I myself commend 



Unto thy guidance from this hour; 
Oh, let my weakness have an end ! 
Oive unto me, made lowly wise, 
The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
The confidence of reason give ; 
And in the light of truth thy Bondman let 
me live ! 
1805. 



CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY 
WARRIOR. 

Who is the happy Warrior .^ Who is he 
That every man in arms should wish to be .'' 
It is the generous Spirit, who, when 

brought 
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrt ught 
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish 

thought : 
Whose high endeavors are an inward light 
That makes the path before !i.n. always 

bright : 
Who, with a natural instinct to discern 
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to 

learn ; 
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there. 
But makes his moral being his prime care . 
Who, doomed to go in company with Pain 
And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train .' 
Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 
In face of these doth exercise a power 
Which is our human nature's highest 

dower ; 
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, 

bereaves 
Of their bad influence, and their good re- 
ceives : 
By objects, which might force the soul to 

abate 
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate; 
Is placable — bcc.iuse occasions rise 
So often that demand such sacrifice ; 
More skilful in self-knowledge, even more 

pure. 
As tempted more : more able to endure 
As more exposed to suffering and distress; 
Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. 
— 'Tis he whose law is reason; who de 

pends 
Upon that law as on the best of friends ; 
Whence, in a state where men are tempted 

still 
To evil for a guard agauist worse ill. 



POEMS OF SENTfMENT AND kEFLECTWiV. 



And what in quality or act is best 
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, 
He labors good on good to fix, and owes 
To virtue every triumph tliat he knows 
— Who, if he rise to station of command, 
Rises by open means ; and there will stand 
On lionorable terms, or else retire, 
And in himself possess his own desire; 
Who comprehends his trust, and to the 

same 
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; 
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in 

wait 
For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state ; 
Wiiom they must follow ; on whose head 

must fall. 
Like showers of manna, if they come at all ; 
\Vhose powers shed round him in the com- 
mon strife, 
Or mild coiiccrns of ordinary lif.-^, 
A constant influence, a peculiar : race; 
But who, if he be called upon to face 
Some awful moment to which Heaven 

joined 
Great issues, good or bad for hianan kind. 
Is happy as a Lo\ ;r ; and attired 
With sudden brightness, like a Man in- 
spired ; 
And, through the heat of conflict, keeps tlic 

law 
In calmness made, and sees what he fore- 
saw ; 
Or if an unexpected call succeed. 
Come when it will, is equal to the need : 
— He who, though thus endued as with a 

sense 
And faculty for storm and turbulence, 
Ic yet a Soul whose master-bias leans 
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes; 
Sweet images ! which, wiieresoe'er he be. 
Are at his heart ; and such fidelity 
It is his darling passion to approve ; 
More brave for this, that he hath much to 

love : — 
'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high 
Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye. 
Or left untliought of in obscurity,— 
Who, with a toward or untoward lot. 
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not — 
Plays, in the many games of life, that one 
Where what he most doth value must be 

won : 
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay. 
Nor thought of tender happiness betray ; 
WIio, not content that former worth stand 

fast. 
Looks forward, persevenns to the last 



From well to better, daily sclf-;.uipast : 
Wiu), whether praise of iiim nuist walk the 

earth 
Forever, and to noble deeds give birth. 
Or he nuist fall, to slec]) without his fame, 
And leave a dead unprofitable name — 
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; 
And,, while the mortal mist is gathering, 

draws 
His breath in confidence of Heaven's ap- 
plause -. 
This is the happy Warrior ; this is FI- 
That every Man in arms should wish to be 
1806. 



THE FORCE OF PRAYER;* 

OR, 

THE I'OUNDING OF nOLTON PRIORY. — A 
TRADITION. 

" 1!UI;rtt io pp£^^ ft»r a bootlcee bene ? " 

With these dark words begins my Talc ; 
And their meaning is, whence can coniiuit 

spring 
When Prayer is of no avail ? 

" IDhat is flooii far n bootlcfl!© bene? " 

The Falconer to the Lady said; 
And slie made answer, "endless sor- 
row!" 
For she knew that her Son was dead. 

She knew it by the Falconer's words, 
And from the look of the Falconer's eye; 
And from the love which was in her soul 
For her youthful Romilly. 

— Young Romilly tlirough Barden woods 

Is r.inging higli and low ; 

And holds a greyhound in a leash, 

To let slip upon buck or doe. 

'J"he pair have reached that fearful chasm. 
How tempting to bestride ! 
For lordly Wharf is there pent in 
With rocks on either side. 

This striding-place is called The Strid, 
A name which it took of yore : 
A thousand years hath it borne that name. 
And shall a thousand more. 



» See the White Doe Ci Kylstone. 



424 



POEMS OF SENTIMF'.XT AND REFLECT/ON. 



And hither is youn^; RotniUy come, 
And what may now forbid 
That he, perhaps for the hundredth time, 
Shall bound across The Stkid:' 

He sprang in glee,— for what cared he 
Tliat the river was strong, and the rocks 

were steep ? — 
But the greyhound m the leasii hung back, 
And checked hnii m his leap. 

The Boy is in the arms of Wharf, 
And strangled by a merciless force, 
l'"()r never more was young Romilly seen 
Till he rose a lifeless corse. 

Now there is stillness in the vale. 
And long, unspeaking, sorrow. 
Whart sliall be to pitying heaits 
A name more sad than Yarrow. 

If for a lover the Lady wept, 

A solace she might borrow 

From death, and from the passion of 

death ;— 
Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. 

She weeps not for the wedding-day 
Winch was to be to-morrow . 
Her hope was a further-looking hope, 
And hers is a mother's sorrow. 

Ho was a tree tliat stood alone. 
And proudly did its branches wave ; 
And the root ot this delightful tree 
Was in her husband's grave ! 

Long, long in darkness did she sit, 
And her first words were, '' Let there be 
In Bolton, on the field ot Whart, 
A stately Priory ! " 

The stately Priory was reared ; 
And Wharf, as he moved along, 
To matuis joined a niourniul voice, 
Nor failed at even-song. 

And the Lady prayed in heaviness 
'1 "hat looked not for relief ! 
But slowly did her succor come, 
And a patience to her grief. 

Oh ! there is never sorrow ot beai^t 
That shall lack a timely end, 
If h:it to God we turn, and j«k 
Ot Him to be our friend! 



A FACT, AND AN IMAGINATION < 

OR, 

CANUTE AND ALFRED, ON THE SEA- 
SHORE. 

The Danish Conqueror, on his royal cliair 
Mustering a face of haughty sovereignty. 
To aid a covert purpose, cried — " O ye 
Approaching Waters of the deep, that share 
With this green isle my fortunes, come not 

where 
Your ^Lastcr's throne is set." — Deaf was 

the sea ; 
Her waves rolled on, respecting his decree 
Less tiian tiiey heed a breath of wanton air. 
— Then Canute, rising from the invaded 

throne, 
Said to his servile Courtiers, — " Poor the 

reach, 
The undisguised extent, of mortal sway ! 
He only is a King, and he alone 
Deserves the name (this truth the biilows 

preach ) 
Whose everlasting laws, sea, earth and 

heaven, obey." 

This just reproof the prosperous Dane 

Drew from the influx of the mam, 

For some whose rugged northern mouths 

would strain 
At oriental flattery ; 

And Canute (fact more worthy to be known) 
From that time forth did for his brows di!»- 

own 
The ostentatious symbol of a crown 
Esteeming earthly royalty 
Contemptible as vain. 

Now hear what one of elder davs, 
Rich theme of England's fondest praise, 
Her darling Alfred, Jiiig/it liave spoken ; 
To cheer the remnant of his host 
When he was driven from coast to coast, 
Dist.essed and liar.itsjd, but with mind un« 
broken : 

" My faithful followers, lo ! the tide is 
spL-nt 
T'lat rose, and steadily advanced to fill 
The shores and channels, working Nature's 

will 
Among the mazy streams that backward 
I went. 

And in 'he sluggish pools where ships ari 
peuti 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



425 



And now, his task performed, the flood stands 

still, 
At the green base of many an island hill, 
In placid beauty and sublime content ! 
Such the repose that sage and hero find ; 
Such measured rest the sedulous and good 
Of humbler name ; whose souls do, like the 

flood 
Of ocean, press right on ; or gently wind. 
Neither to be diverted nor withstood, 
Until they reach .the bounds by Heaven as- 
signed," 
1816. 



" A LITTLE onu<a7-d lend thy gtdd'ms: hand 
To these dark steps, a little further on ' " 
■ — What trick of memory to my voice hath 

brought 
Tiiis mournful iteration ? For though Time, 
The (Joncjueror, crowns the Conquered, on 

this brow 
Plantmg his favorite silver diadem. 
Nor he, nor minister of his — intent 
'I'o run before liim, hath enrolled me yet, 
Though not unmenaced among tliusj who 

lean 
Upon a living staff, with borrowed sight. 
— O my own Dora, my beloved child ! 
Sliould that day come — but hark ! the birds 

salute 
'Ihe cheerful dawn, brightening for me the 

east ; 
For me, thy natural leader, once again 
Impatient to conduct thee, not as erst 
A tottering infant, with comi)iiant stoop 
From flower to flower supported ; but to curb 
Tiiy nymph-like step swift-bounding o'er 

the lawn, 
Along the loose rocks, or the slippery verge 
O .oaming torrents. — From thy orisons 
C line forth ; and while the morning air is 

yet 
transparent as the soul of 'nnocent youth, 
Let me, tiiy happy guide, now point thv way, 
And now precede thee, winding to and fro, 
Till we by perseverance gain the top 
Of some smooth ridge, whose brink precip- 
itous • 
R.ndles intense desire for powers withheld 
Fiuin this corporeal framj ; wliereon who 

stands 
Is scizetl with strong incitement to ]-)ush !'( rth 
His arms, as swimmers use, and plunge — 

dread thought, 



For pastime plunge — into the *' abrupt 

abyss," 
Where ravens spread their plumy vans, at 

ease! 

And yet more gladly thee would I conduct 
Tiirough woods and spacious forests, — to 

behold 
There, how the Original of human art. 
Heaven-prompted Nature, measures and 

erects 
Her temples, fearless for the stately work, 
Though waves, to every breeze, its higsi- 

arched locjf, 
And storn\s the pillars rock. But we such 

schools 
Of reverential awe will chiefly seek 
In the still sunmicr noon, while beams of 

light, 
Reposing here, and in the aisles beyond 
Tracoably gliding through the dusk, recall 
To mind the living presences of nuns ; 
A gentle, pensive, whit-.-obed sisterliood. 
Whose saintly radiance mitigates the gkom 
( )f those terrestrial fabrics, where they serve, 
Tj Christ, the .Sun of righteousness, cs- 

poused. 

Now also shall the page of classic lore, 
To these glad eyes from boncla5,e freed, again 
Lie open • and the book of H(Jy Writ, 
Again unfolded, passage clear sli;dl yield 
To heights more glorious still, and into 

siiades 
More awful, where, advancing hand in hand, 
We may be taught, O Darling of my care I 
To calm the affections, elevate the soul. 
And consecrate our lives to truth and love. 

1S16. 



XXIV, 

ODE TO LVCORIS, 
May, 1.S17. 
\. 
An age hatlH^een when Earth was proud 
Of lustre too intense 
To be sustained : and M ^rta's bowed 
The front in self-defence. 
Who then, if Dian's crescent gleamed, 
Or Cupid's sparkling arrow streamed 
While on the wing the Urchin played, 
C(;uld fearlessly approach the shade? 
— Enougli for one soft vernal day, 
If I, a bard of ebbing time. 
And nurtured in a fickle clime 



426 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION 



May haunt this horned bay ; 

Wliose amorous water multiplies 

The flitting halcyon's vivid dyes ; 

And smooths her liquid breast — to show 

These swan-like specks of mountain snow, 

White as the pair that slid along the plains 

Of heaven, when Venus held the reins ! 



In youth we love the darksome lawn 

Brushed by the owlet's wing ; 

'J'hen, Twilight is preferred to Dawn, 

And Autumn to the Spring. 

Sad fancies do we then affect, 

In luxury of disrespect 

To our own prodigal excess 

Of too familiar happiness. 

Lycoris (if such name befit 

Thee, thee my life's celestial sign !) 

When Nature marks the year's decline. 

Be ours to welcome it ; 

Pleased with the harvest hope that runs 

Before the path of milder suns ; 

Pleas d wh.le the sylvan world disj^lays 

Its ripeness to the feeding gaze ; 

Pleased when the sullen winds resound the 

knell 
Of the resplendent miracle- 



But something whispers to my heart 

Tliat, as we downward tend, 

I.ycoris! life requires an art 

To which our souls must bend ; 

A skill— to balance and supply; 

And, ere the flowing fount be dry, 

As soon it must, a sense to sip. 

Or drink, witii no fastidious lip. 

Then welcome, above all, the Guest 

Whose smiles, diffused o'er land and sea, 

'eem to recall the Deity 

( if youth into the breast ; 

I.I.iy pensi 'e Autumn ne'er present 

A claim to her disparagement ! 

While blossoms and the budding spray 

Inspire us in our own decay ; 

Still, as we nearer draw to life's dark goal. 

Be hopeful Spring the favorite of the Soul ! 



XXV. 
TO THE SAME. 

Enough of climbing toil ! — Ambition treads 
Here, as 'mid busier scenes, ground steep 
and rciijt,ij, 



Or slippery even to peril ! and each step. 
As we for most uncertain recompense 
Mount toward the empire of the fickle clouds 
E.ich weary step, dwarfing the world below, 
Induces, for its old familiar sights, 
Unacceptable feelings of contempt, 
With wonder mixed — that Man could eV 

be tied. 
In anxious bondage, to such nice array 
And formal fellowship of pretty things ! 
- Oh ! 'tis the heart that ijiagnifies this life, 
Making a truth and beauty of her own ; 
A ad moss-grown alleys, circumscribing 

shades. 
And gurgling rills, assist her in the work 
More efficaciously than realms outspread, 
As in a map, before the adventurer's gaze — 
Ocean and Earth contending for regard. 

The umbrageous w<;)ods are left — how far 
beneath ! 
But lo ! where darkness seems to guard tiie 

inouth 
C)f yon wild cave, whose jagged brows are 

fringed 
With flaccid threads of ivy, in the still 
And sultry air, depending motionless 
Vet cool the space within, and not uncheered 
(As vvhoscj enters shall ere long perceive) 
By stealthy influx of the timid day 
Mingling w^ith night, such twilight to com- 
pose 
As Nuina loved ; when, in the Kgerian grot, 
From the sage Nympii appearing at his wish, 
He gained vvhate'er a regal mind might ask, 
Or need, of counsel breathed through lips 
divine. 

Long as the heat shall rage, let that dim 
cave 
Protect us, there deciphering as we may 
Diluvian records ; or the sighs of Earth 
Interpreting ; or counting for old Time 
His minutes, by reiterated drops, 
Audible tears, from some invisible source 
That deepens upon fancy — more and more 
Drawn toward the centre whence those sight 

creep forth 
To awe the lightness of humanity. 
Or, shutting up thyself within thyself, 
There let me see thee sink int^) a mood 
Of gentler thought, protracted till thine eye 
Be calm as water when the winds are gone. 
And no one can tell whither. Dearest 

P'riend ! 
We too have known such happy hours to- 
gether 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



4^7 



That, were power gr.intcd to roplace them 
(fetched 

Fiom out the pensive shadows wliere thev 
he) 

In tlie first waruith of tlieir original sun- 
shine, 

Loth should I be to ise it passing sweet 

Are the domains ot tender memory ! 
1817. 



SEPTEMBER, 1S19. 

The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields 
Are hung, as if with golden shields, 
Briglit trophies of the sun ! 
Like a fair sister of the sky, 
Unrutfled doth the blue lake lie, 
'J'iie mountains looking on. 

And, sooth to say, yon vocal grove, 
Albeit uninspired by love, 
By love untaught to ring, 
May well afford to mortal ear 
An impulse more profoundly dear 
Than music of tiie Spring, 

For thai from turbulence and heat 
Proceeds, from some uneasy seat 
In nature's strugglir.g fram?, 
Some region of impatient life : 
And jealousy, and quivering strife, 
Therein a portion claim. 

This, this is holy ; — while I hear 
Tliese vespers of ancjthcr year, 
This hymn of thanks and praise. 
My spirit seems to mount abf ve 
The anxieties of human love, 
And earth's precarious days. 

But list !— though winter storms be nigh, 
Unchecked is that soft harmony : 
There lives Wiio can provide 
For all his creatures ; and in Him, 
Even like the radiant Seraphim, 
These choristers confide. 



xxvn. 

UPON THE SAME OCCASION. 

Departing summer hath assumed 
An aspect tenderly illumed, 
The gentlest look of spring ; 
That calls from yonder leafy shade 
Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, 
A timely carolling. 



No faint and hesitating trill. 
Such tribute as to winter chill 
The lonely redbreast pays ! 
Clear, loud, and lively is the din. 
From social warblers gathering in 
Their harvest of sweet lays. 

Nor doth the example fail to cheer 
Me, conscious that my leaf is sere. 
And yellow on the bougli . — 
Fall, rosy garlands, from my head ! 
Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed 
Around a younger brow ! 

Yet will I temperately rejoice ; 

Wide is the range, and free the choice 

Ot undiscordant themes'. 

Which, haply, kindred souls may 1 rize 

Not less than vernal ecstasies. 

And passion's feverish dreams. 

For deathless powers to verse belong, 
And tliey like Demi-gods are strong 
On whom the Muses smile ; 
But some their function have disclaimed, 
Best pleased with what is aptUest fr..mLd 
To enervate and defile. 

Not such the initiatory strains 

Coixnuitted to the silent plains 

In Britain's earliest dawn • 

Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale, 

While all-too-daringly the veil 

Of nature was withdrawn 1 

Nor such the spirit-stirring note 
When the live chords Alca^us smote, 
InHamed by sense of wrong ; 
Woe ! woe to Tyrants ! from the lyre 
Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire 
Of fierce vindictive song. 

And not unhallowed was the page 
By winged Love inscribed, to assuage 
The pangs of vain pursuit ; 
Love listening while the Lesbian Maid 
With finest touch of passion swaytd 
Her own i5£olian lute. 

O ye, who patiently explore 
The wreck of Herculanean lore. 
What rapture! could ye seize 
Some Theban fragment, or unroll 
One precious, tender-hearted, scrcjll 
Of pure Simonides, 

That were, indeed, a genuine birth 
Of poesy ; a bursting forth 
Of genius from the dust 






POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REELECTION. 



What Horace gloried to behold, 
"What Maro loved, shall we enfold ? 
Can haughty Time be just I 
1819. 



XXVIII. 

MEMORY. 

A PEN — to register ; a key — 
That winds througli secret wards ; 
Are well assigned to Memory 
By allegoric Bards. 

As aptly, also, might be given 
A Pencil to her hand ; 
7'hat)['softening objects, sometimes even 
Outstrips tlie heart's demand ; 

That smootlies foregone distress, the lines 
Of lingering care subdues, 
Long-vanished happiness refines, 
And clothes in brigliter hues 5,' 

Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works 
Those Spectres to dilate 
That startle Conscience, as she lurks 
Within her lonely seat. 

O ! that' our lives, \vl)icli flee so fast,) 
In purity were such 
Tliat not an image of the past 
Should fear that pencil's touch 1 

Retirement then might hourly look 
Upon a soothing scene, 
Age steal to his allotted nook- 
Contented and serene ; 

With heart as calm as lakes that sloep, 
In frosty moonlight glistening; 
Or mountain rivers, where tliey creep 
Along a channel smooth and deep. 
To their own far-off murmurs listening. 
1823. 



XXIX. 

This Lawn, a carpet all alive 

With shadows flung from leaves — to strive 

In dance, amid a jsress 
Of sunshine, an apt emblem yields 
Of Worldlings revelling in the fields 

Of strenuous idleness ; 

Less quick the stir when tide and breeze 
Encounter, and to narrow seas 



Forbid a moment's rest ; 
The medley less when boreal Lights 
Glance to and fro, like aery Sprites 

To feats of arms addrest ! 

Yet, spite of all this eager strife. 
This ceaseless play, tlie genuine lift 

That serves the steadfast hours 
Is in the grass beneath, that grows 
Unheeded, and the mute repose 

Of sweetly-breathing flowers, 

1S29. 



XXX. 

HUMANITY. 

[The Rocking-stones, alluded to in the begin- 
lung (jf the following verses, are suppo>ed to 
have been used, by our Britisli ancestors, 
both for judicial and religious purposes. Such 
stones are not uncommonly fcjund, at this 
day, both in Great Britain and in Ireland.] 

What though the Accused, upon his own 

appeal 
To righteous Gods when man has ceased t(? 

feel. 
Or at a doubting Judge's stern command. 
Before the Stone of Power no longer 

stand — 
To take his sentence from the balanced 

Block, 
As, at his touch, it rocks, or seems to rock ; 
Though, in the depths of sunless groves, no 

more 
The Dniid-priest the hallowed Oak adore ; 
Yet, for the Initiate, rocks and whispering 

trees 
Do still perform mysterious offices ! 
And functions dwell in beast and bird that 

sway 
The reasoning mind, or with the fancy play, 
Inviting, at all seasons, ears and eyes 
To watch for undelusive auguries : — 
Not uninspired appear their simplest ways ; 
Their voices mount symbolical of praise-" 
To mix. with hymns that Spirits make and 

hear ; 
And to fallen man their innocence is dear. 
Enraptured Art draws from those sacred 

springs 
Streams that reflect the poetry of things ! 
Where christian Martyrs stand in hues por 

traycd, 
Tiiat, might a wish avail, would never fadej 
Borne in their hands the lily and the palra 
Shed round the altar a celestial calm ; 



POEMS OF SEMI ME NT AND REFfECTION. 



429 



I'hoie, too, behold the lamb and guileless 

dove 
Picst in the tenderness of virgin love 
To saintly bosoms ! — Glorious is the blend- 
ing 
Of right affections climbing or descending 
Along a scale of light and life, with cares 
Alternate ; carrying holy thoughts and 

prayers 
Up to the sovereign seat of the Most High ; 
t)cscending to the worm in chanty ; 
Like tliose good Angels whom a dream of 

night 
Gave, in the field of Luz, to Jacob's sight — 
All, while he slept, treading the pendent 

stairs 
Eartluvard or heavenward, radiant messen- 
gers, 
That, with a perfect will in one accord 
Of strict obedience, serve the Almighty 

Lord ; 
And with untired humility forbore 
To speed their errand by the wings they 
wore. 

What a fair world were ours for verse to 

paint, 
If Power could live at ease with self- 
restraint ! 
Opinion bow before the naked sense 
Of the great Vision, — faith in Providence; 
Merciful over all his creatures, just 
To the least particle of sentient dust ; 
But fixing by immutable decrees 
Seedtime and harvest for his purposes ! 
Then would be closed the restless oblique 

eye 
That looks for evil like a treacherous spy ; 
Disputes would then reiax, like stormy 

winds 
That into breezes sink ; impetuous minds 
By discipline endeavor to grow meek 
As Truth herself, whom they profess to 

seek. 
Then Genius, shunning fellowship with 

Pride, 
Would braid his golden locks at Wisdom's 

side ; 
Love ebb and flow untroubled by caprice ; 
And not alone harsh tyranny would cease, 
I5ut unoffending creatures find release 
From qualified oppression, whose defence 
Kcsts on a hollow plea of recompense ; 
Thought-tempered wrongs, for each humane 

respect 
Oft worse to bear, or deadlier in effect. 
Witness those glances of indignant scorn I 



P'rom some high-minded Slave, impelled to 

spurn 
The kindness that would make him less 

forlorn ; 
Or, if the soul to bondage be subdued, 
His look of pitiable gratitude ! 

Alas for thee, bright Galaxy of Isles, 
Whose day departs in pomp, returns with 

smiles — 
To greet the flowers and fruitage of a larid, 
As the sun mounts, by sca-bora breezes 

fanned ; 
A land whose azure mountain-tops are seats 
For Gods in council, whose green vales, 

retreats 
Fit for the shades of heroes, mingling there 
To breathe Elysian peace in upper air. 

Though cold as winter, gloomy as the 

grave. 
Stone walls a prisoner make, but not a slave. 
Shall man assume a propei ty in man t 
Lay on the moral will a withering ban 1 
Shame that our laws at distance still jirotect 
Enormities, which they at home reject I 
"Slaves cannot breathe in England" — yet 

that boast 
Is but a mockery ! when from coast to 

coast, 
Though fettered slave be none, her floors 

and soil 
Groan underneath a v/eight of slavish toil, 
For the poor Many, measured out by rules 
Fetched with cupidity from heartless 

schools, 
That to an Idol, falsely called " the Wealth 
Of Nations," sacrifice a People's health, 
Body and mind and soul ; a thirst so keen 
Is ever urging on the vast machine 
Of sleepless Labor, 'mid whose dizzy wheels 
The Power least prized is tha*- which thinks 

and feels. 

Then, for the pastimes of this delicate 

age, 
And all the heavy or light vassalage 
Which for their sakes we fasten, as may 

suit 
Our varying moods, on human kind o\ 

brute, 
'Twere well in little, as in great, to pause, 
Lest Fancy trifle with eternal laws. 
Not from his fellows only man may learn 
Rights to compare an.l duties to discern ! 
All creatures and all objects, in degree, 
Are inciids and patrons of humanity. 



430 



POEMS c7F SEiXTIMKAH' AND REFLECTION. 



There are to whom the it^rrlm, grove, and 

field, 
Perpetual lessons of forbearance yield ; 
Who would not lightly violate the grace 
The lowliest flower possesses in its place; 
Nor shorten the sweet life, too fugitive. 
Which nothing less than Infinite Power 

could give. 
1829. 



XXXI, 

THOUGHT ON THE SEASONS. 

Flattered with promise of escape 

From every hurtful blast, 
Spring takes, O sprightly May ! thy shape 

Her loveliest and her last. 

Less fair is summer riding high 

In fierce solstitial power, 
Less fair than when a lenient sky 

Brings on her parting hour. 

When earth repays with golden sheaves 

The labors of the plough. 
And ripening fruits and forest leaves 

All brighten on the bough ; 

What pensive beauty autumn shows, 

Before she hears the sound 
Of winter rushing in, to close 

The emblematic A)und ! 

Such be our Spring, our §.ummer such ; 

So may our Autumn blend 
With hoary Winter, and Life-touch, 

Through heaven-born hope, her end ! 
1829. 

» 

XXXII. 

TO . 



OPON THE BIRTH OF HER FIRST-BORN 
CHILD, MARCH, 1S33. 

" Turn porro puer, iit sjevis projectus ab undis 
Navita, inidus huini jacet," &c.— Lucketius. 

Like a shipwreck'd Sailor tost 
By rough waves on a perilous coast, 
Lies the Babe, in helplessness 
And in tendcrest nakedness. 
Flung by laboring nature forth 
Upon the n-'.crcies of the earth. 
Can its eyes beseech ? — no more 
Than the hands are free to implore : 
Vo.ce but serves fo'- one brief cry ; 
Plaint was it? or prophecy 



Of sorrow that will surely come ? 
Omen of man's grievous doom 1 

But, O Mother ! by the close 
Duly granted to thy throes ; 
By the silent thanks, now tending 
Inccnsc-like to Heaven, desccndii g 
Now to mingle and to move 
With the gush of earthly love, 
Asa debt to that frail Creature, 
Instrument of struggling Nature 
For the blissful calm, the peace 
Known but to this o>!c release— 
Can the pitying spirit doubt 
Tliat for humankind spriegs out 
Fr(Mn the penalty a sense 
Of more than mortal recompense? 

As a floating summer cloucl, 
Thougli of gorgeous drapery proudy 
To the sun-burnt traveller, 
Or the stooping laborer. 
Oft-times makes its boimty known 
By its shadow round him thrown ; 
So, by checkerings of sad cheer. 
Heavenly Guardians, brooding near, 
Of their presence tell — too bright 
liaply for corporeal sight ! 
Ministers of grace divine 
Feelingly their brows incline 
O'er this seeming Castaway 
Breathing, in the light of day. 
Something like the faintest breath 
That has power to baffle death — 
Beautiful, while very weakness 
Captivates like passive meekness. 

And, sweet Mother ! under warrant 
Of the universal Parent, 
Who repays in season due 
Them who have, like thee, been true 
To the filial chain let down 
From his everlasting throne, 
Angels hovering round thy couch, 
With their softest whispers vouch, 
Tuat — whatever griefs may fret. 
Cares entangle, sins beset, 
This thy First-born, and with tears 
Stain her cheek in future years — 
Heavenly succor, not denied 
To the babe, whate'er betide, 
Will to the woman be supplied ! 

Mother ! blest be thy calm ease; 
151est the starry promises, — 
And the firmament benign 
Hallowed be it, where they shine ! 



POEMS OF SEiYTfMF-'.XT AND REFLECT/ON. 



43 » 



Yes, for them wliose souls have scope 

Ample for a winged hope, 

And can earthward bend an ear 

For needful listening, pledge is here, 

Tiiat, if thy new-born Charge shall tread 

In thy footsteps, and be led 

By that other Guide, whose light 

Of manly virtues, mildly bright. 

Gave him first the wished-for part 

In thy gentle virgin heart ; 

Then, amid the storms of life 

Presignified by that dread strife 

Whence ye have escaped together, 

She may look for serene weather ; 

In all trials sure to find 

Comfort for a faithful mind ; 

Kindlier issues, holier rest, 

Than even now await her prest. 

Conscious Nursling, to thy breast! 



XXXIII. 

THE WARNING. 

A SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING. 

List, the winds of March are blowing ; 
Her ground-flowers shrink, afraid of show- 
ing 
The'T meek heads to the nipping air, 
Which ye feel not, happy pair ! 
Sunk into a kindly sleep. 
We, meanwhile, our hope will keep ; 
Ardif Time leagued with adverse Change 
{ 1 00 busy fear !) shall cross its range, 
Wiiatsoever check they bring, 
Anxious duty hindering, 
To like hope our prayers will cling. 

Thus, while the nuTiinating spirit feeds 
Upon the events of home as life proceeds, 
Affections pure and holy in their scuircc 
Gain a fresh impulse, run a livelier course ; 
Hopes that within the Father's heart j rc- 

vail, 
Are in the experienced Grandsire's slow to 

fail; 
And if the harp pleased his gay youth, it 

rings 
To his grave touch with no unready strings, 
While thoughts press en, and feelings over- 
flow. 
And quick words round him fall like flakes 
ot snow. 

Thanks to the Powers that yet maintain 
their sway, 
And have renewed the tributary Lay. 



Truths of the heart flock in with eager pace, 
And Fancy greets them with a fond em- 
brace ; 
Swift as the rising sun his beams extends 
Siie .shoots the tidings forth to distant 

friends ; 
Their gifts she hails (deemed precioui, as 

they prove 
For the unconscious Babe so prompt a 

love ! )— 
But from this peaceful centre of delight 
Vague sympathies have urged her to take 

' night : 
Rapt into upper regions, like the Uee 
That sucks from mountain heath her honey 

fee ; 
Or, like the warbling lark intent to shroud 
His head in sunbeams or a bowery cloud. 
She soars — and here and there her pinions 

rest 
On proud towers, like this humble cottage. 

blest 
With a new visitant, an infant guest — 
Towers where red streamers flout the breezy 

sky 
In pomp foreseen jy her creative eye. 
When feasts shall crowd the hall, and steeple 

bells 
Glad proclamation make, and heights and 

dells 
Catch the blithe music as it sinks and swells, 
And harbored ships, whose pride is on the 

sea. 
Shall hoist their topmast flags in sign of 

glee. 
Honoring the hope ofnoblc ancestry. 



But who (though neither reckoning ills 

assigned 
I'y Nature, nor reviewing in the mind 
Liie track that was, and is, and must hQ. 

worn 
With weary foot by all of woman born) - 
Shall mni' by s>,ch a gift with joy be moved, 
Nor feel the fulness of that joy reproved ? 
Not He, wliose last faint memory will com- 

niard 
The trutli that Britain was his native land ; 
Whose mfant soul was tutored to confide 
In the cleansed faith for which her martyrs 

died; _ 
Whose boyish ear the voice of her renown 
Wilh rapture thrilled ; whose Youth revered 

tlie crown 
Of Saxon liberty that Alfred wore, 
Alfred, dear Babe, thy great Progenitor 1 



432 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AXD REELECTrON. 



—Not He, wlio from licr mdlowed practice 

drew 
His social sense of just, and fair, and true ; 
And saw, thereafter, on the soil of France 
Rash Polity begin her maniac dance. 
Foundations biolicn up, the deeps run wild, 
Nor grieved to see (himself not unbe- 

guiled) — 
Woke from the dream, the dreamer to up- 
braid. 
And learn how sanguine CNpectations fade 
When novel tfusts by folly are betrayed, — 
To see Presumption, turning pale, refiain 
From further havoc, but repent in vain, — 
(,M)od aims lie down, and perish in the road 
Where guilt had urged them on with cease- 
less goad. 
Proofs thickening round her that on public 

ends 
Domestic virtue vitally depends, 
That civic strife can turn the happiest 

li earth 
Into a grievous sore of self-tormenting 
earth. 

Can such a one, dear Babe ! though glad 
and proud 
To welcome thee, repel the fears that crowd 
Into his English breast, and spare to quakj 
Less for his own than for thy innocent sake ? 
Too late — or, should the providence of God 
Lead, through dark ways by sin and sorrow 

trod, 
Justice and peace to a secure abode. 
Too soon — thou com'st into this breathing 

world ; 
Ensigns of mimic outrage are unfurled. 
Wiio shall preserve or prop the tottering 

Realm ? 
What hand suffice to govern the state-helm ? 
If, in the aims of men, the surest test 
Of good or bad (whate'er be sought for or 

profest) 
Lie in the means required, or ways ordained. 
For compassing the end, else never gained ; 
Yet governors and govern'd both are blmd 
To this plain truth, or fling it to the wind ; 
If to expedience principle must bow ; 
Fast, future, shrinking up beneath the in- 
cumbent Now ; 
If cowardly concession still must feed 
The thirst for power in men who nv;'er con- 
cede ; 
Nor turn aside, unless to shape a way 
For domination at some riper day ; 
\\ ■-'■ ncrous Loyalty must stand in awe 
01 iubtlo Tr3ason, in his mask of law, 



Or with bravado insolent and hard, 
I'rovoking punishment, to win reward ; 
if ortice helj) the factious to conspire, 
And they who should extinguish fan the 

fire — 
Then, will the sceptre be a straw, the crown 
Sit loosely, like the thistle's crest of down; 
To be blown off at will, by Power that 

spares it 
In cunning patience, from the head tliat 

wears it. 



Lost people, trained to theoretic feud ! 
Lost above all, ye laboring multitude ! 
Bewildered whether ye, by slanderous 

tongues 
Deceived, mistake calamities for wrongs ; 
And over fancied usurpations brood, 
Oft snapjiing at revenge in sullen mood ; 
Or, fiom long stress of real injuries fly 
To desperation for a remedy ; 
In bursts of outrage spread your judgments 

Wide, 
And to vour wrath cry oat, " Be thou our 

guide;" 
Or, bound by oaths, come forth to tread 

earth's floor 
In marshalled thousands, darkening street 

and moor 
With the worst shape mock-patience ever 

wore ; 
Or, to the giddy top of self-esteem 
Bv Flatterers carried, mount into a dream 
Of boundless suffrage, at whose sage be- 
hest 
Justice shall rule, disorder be supprest. 
And every man sit down as Plenty's Ouest ! 
— O for a bridle bitted with remorse 
To stop your Leaders in their headstrong 

course ! 
Oh may the Almighty scatter with his grace 
These mists, and lead you to a safer place. 
By paths no human wisdom can foretrace ! 
May He pour round you, from worlds far 

above 
Man's feverish passions, his pure light ot 

love, 
That quietly restores the natural mien 
To hope, and makes truth willing to be 

seen ! 
ZiVjT shall your blood-stained hands in fren/.y 

reap 
Fields gayly sown when promises were 

cheap. — 
Why is the Past belied with wicked art, 
The Future made to play so false a part, 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



433 



Among a people famed for strength of mind, 
Foremost in freedom, n.blest of mankind ? 
We act as if we joyed in the sad tune 
Storms make in rising, vaUicd in the moon 
Naught but her changes. 'J'hus, ungrateful 

Nation : 
if thou persist, and, scorning moderation. 
Spread for thyself the snares of tribulation, 
VVIiom, then, shall meekness guard ? What 

saving skill 
Lie in forbearance, strength in standing 

still ? 
—Soon shall the widow (for the speed of 

Time 
Naught equals when the hours are winged 

with crime) 
Widow, or wife, implore on tremulous knee, 
From him wiio judged her lord, a like de- 
cree ; 
The skies will weep o'er old men desolate : 
Ve little-ones ! Earth shudders at your fate, 
Outcasts and homeless orphans 

But turn, my Soul, and from the sleeping 
pair 
Learn thou the beauty of omniscient care ! 
Be strong in faith, bid anxious thoughts lie 

still ; 
Seek for the g' od and cherish it -the ill 
Oppose, or bear with a submissive will. 



^ XXXIV. 

If this great world of joy and pain 

Revolve in one sure track ; 
If freedom, set, will rise again, 

And virtue, llown, come back ; 
Woe to the purblincl crew who fill 

The heart with each day's care ; 
Nor gain, froni past or future, skill 

To bear, and to forbear ! 
'833. 



XXXV. 

THE LA BORER'S NOON-DAV HVMN. 

Up to the throne of God is borne 
The voice of praise at carlv morn, 
And he accepts the punctiial hymn 
Sung as the light of day grows dim. 

Nor will he turn his ear aside 
From holy offerings at noontide. 
Then here reposing let us raise 
A »ong of gratitude aud praist. 



What though our burthen be not light, 
We need not toil from morn to niglit ; 
The respite of the mid-day hour 
Is in tiie tliankful Creature's power. 

Blest are tiie moments, doubly blest. 
That, drawn from this one hour of rest. 
Are with a ready heart bestowed 
Upon tiie service of our God ! 

Each field is then a hallowed spot, 
An altar is in each man's cot, 
A church in every grove that spreads 
Its living roof above our heads. 

Look up to heaven ! the industrious Sun 
Already half his race hath run ; 
He cannot halt nor go astray, 
But our inimortal Spirits may. 

Lord! since his rising in the East, 
If we have faltered or transgressed, 
Ciuide, from thy love's abundant source, 
Wliat yet remains of this day's course : 

Help with thy grace, through life's short 

day, 
Our upward and our downward way ; 
And glorify for us the west. 
When we shall sink to final rest. 
1834. 

♦ 

xxxvr. 
ODE, 

COMPOSED ON MAY MORNING. 

While from the purpling east departs 

The star that led Ihc dawn. 
Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts, 

For May is on the lawn. 
A quickening hope, a freshening glee, 

Foreran the expected Power, 
Whose first-drawn breath, from Lush and 
tree 

Shakes off that pearly shower. 

All Nature welcomes Her whose sway 

Tempers the year's extremes ; 
Wlio scattereth lustres o'er noon-day. 

Like morning's dewy gleams ; 
Wliile mellow warble, sprigiitly trill, 

The tremulous heart excite ; 
And hums the balmy air to still 

The balance of delight. 

Time was, blest Power ! when youths and 
maids 

At peep of dawn would rise, 
And wander forth in forest glade* 

Thy birth to solemnize. 



434 



PORMS OF SENTIMEIVT AND REFLECTICN'. 



Though mute the song — to grace the rite 
Untouclied the hawthorn bow, 

Thy Spirit triumphs o'er the shght ; 
Man changes, but not Thou ! 

Tliy feathered Lieges bill and wings 

in love's disport employ, 
Warmed by thy influence, creeping things 

Awake to silent joy : 
Queen art thou still for each gay plant 

Where the slim wild deer roves ; 
And served in depths where fishes haunt 

Their own mysterious groves. 

Cloud-piercing peak, and trackless heath, 

Instinctive homage pay ; 
Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreath 

To honor thee, sweet May ! 
Where cities fanned by thy brisk airs 

Behold a smokeless sky, 
Their puniest Hower-plot-narsling dares 

To open a bright eye. 

And if, on th.is thy natal morn. 

The pole, from wjiich thy name 
Hath not departed, stands forlorn 

Or song and dance and game ; 
Still from the village-green a vow 

Aspires to thee addrest. 
Wherever peace is on the brow, 

Or love within the breast. 

Ves ! where Love nestles thou canst teach 

The Soul to love the more ; 
Hearts also shall thy lessons reach 

That never loved before : 
Stript is the haughty one of pride, 

The bashful free from fear. 
While rising, like the ocean-tide, 

In flows the joyous year. 

Hush, feeble lyre! weak words refuse 

The service to prolong ! 
To yon exulting thrush the Muse 

Entrusts the imperfect song ; 
J I is voice shall chant, in accents clear, 

Throughout the live-long day, 
Till the first silver star appear. 

The sovereignty of May. 
1826. 



XXXVII. 

TO MAY. 

Though many suns have risen and set 
Since thou, blithe May, wert born, 

And liards, who hailed thee, may forget, 
Tliy gilts, thy bea-ity scorn ; 



There are vviio to a birthday strain 

Confine not harp and voice, 
But evermore throughout thy reign 

Are grateful and rejoice ! 

Delicious odors ! music sweet, 

Too sweet to pass away ! 
Oh for a deathless song to meet 

The soul's desire — a lay 
That, when a thousand years are told, 

Should praise thee, genial Power ! 
Through summer heat, autumnal cold, 

And winter's dreariest hour. 

Earth, sea, thy presence feel — nor less, 

If yon ethereal blue 
With its soft smile the truth express, 

The heavens have felt it too 
The inmost iieart of man if glad 

Partakes a livelier cheer ; 
And eyes th«t cannot but be sad 

Let fall a brightened tear. 

Since thv return, through days and weeks 

Of hi i)e that grew by stealth. 
How many wan and faded cheeks 

Have kindled into health? 
The Old, by thee revived, have said, 

" Another year is ours ; " 
And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed 

Have smiled upon thy flowers. 

Who tripping lisps a merry song 

Amid his playful peers.' 
'J'he tender Infant who was long 

A prisoner of fond fears ; 
But now, when every sharp-edged blast 

Is quiet in its sheath, 
His mother leaves him free to taste 

Earth's sweetness in thy breath. 

Thy help is with the weed that creeps 

Along the humblest ground ; 
No cliff so bare but on its steeps 

Tiiy favors may be found ; 
But most on some peculiar nook 

That our own hands have drest, 
Thou and thy train are proud to look, 

And seem to love it best. 

And yet how pleased we wander forth 

When May is whispering, "Come ! 
Choose from the bowers of virgin earth 

Tiic happiest for your liome ; 
Ti aven's bounteous love through me u 
spread 

From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves, 
Drops on the mouldering turret's head 

And on your turf-clad graves ! '' 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION 



^35 



Such greeting heard, away with sighs 

For lilies that must fade, 
Or " the ratiie primrose as it dies 

Forsaken " in the shade ! 
Vernal fruitions and desires 

Are linked m endless chase ; 
While, as one kindly growth retires, 

Another takes its place. 

y nd what if thou, sweet May, hast known 

Mishap by worm and blight ; 
I- expectations newly blown 

Have perished in thy sight ; 
• f loves and joys, while up they sprung, 

Were caught as in a snare ; 
Siich is the lot of all the young. 

However bright and fair. 

Lg ! Streams that April could not check 

Are patient of thy rule ; 
Gurgling in foamy water-break, 

Loitering in glassy pool : 
By thee, thee only, could be sent 

Such gentle mists as glide, 
Curling with unconfirmed intent, 

On that green mountain's side. 

How delicate the leafy veil 

Through which yon house of God 
Gleams 'mid the peace of this deep dale 

By few but shepherds trod ! 
And lowly huts, near beaten ways, 

No sooner stand attired 
In thy fresh wreaths, than they for praise 

Peep forth, and are admired. 

Season of fancy and of hope. 

Hermit not for one hour 
A blossom from thy crown to drop 

Nor add to it a flower ! 
Keep, lovely May, as if by touch 

Of self-restraining art, 
Tliis modest charm of nijt too much, 
Part seen, imagined part I 

1826-1834. 



XXXVIIl. 

LINES 

SUGGESTED BY A PORTRAIT FROM THI 
PENCIL OF F. STONE. 

Beguiled into forgetfulness of care 
Due to the day's unfinished task ; of pen 
Or book regardless, and of that fair scene 
In Nature's prodigality displayed 
Before my window, oftentimes and long 
I gaze upon a Portrait whose mild gleam 



Of beauty never ceases to enrich 

The common light ; whose stillness charm* 

the air, 
Or seems to charm it, into like repose ; 
Whose silence, for the pleasure of the car. 
Surpasses sweetest music. There she sifc' 
With emblematic purity attired 
In a white vest, white as her macble neck 
Is, and the pillar of the throat would be 
But for the shadow by the drooping chin 
Cast into that recess — the tender shade. 
The shade and light, both there and every- 
where. 
And through the very atmosphere he 

breathes, 
Broad, clear, and toned harmoniously, with 

skill 
That might from nature have been learnt in 

the hour 
When the lone shepherd sees the morning 

spread 
Upon the mountains. Look at her, whoe'er 
Thou be that, kindling with a poet's soul, 
Hast loved the painter's true Promethean 

craft 
Intensely — from Imagination take 
The treasure, — what mine eyes behold see 

thou. 
Even though the Atlantic ocean roll be- 
tween. 

k silver line, that runs from brow to 

crown 
And in the middle parts the braided hair. 
Just serves to show how delicate a soil 
The golden harvest grows in ; and tliose 

eyes. 
Soft and capacious as a cloudless skv 
Whose azure depth their color emulates. 
Must needs be conversant with upw.ird 

looks. 
Prayer's voiceless service ; but now, seeking 

nought 
And shunning nought, their own peculiar 

life 
Of motion they renounce, and with the head 
Partake its inclination towards earth 
In hum'ole grace, and quiet pensiveness 
Caught at the point where it stops short ot 

sadness. 

Offspring of soul-bewitching Art, make 

me 
Thy confidant! say, whence derived that 

a'r 
Of calm abstraction ? Can the ruling 

thought 
Be with some lover far away, or one 



43^ 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Crossed by misfortune, or of doubted faith ? 
Inapt conjecture ! Childhood here, a moon 
Crescent in simple loveliness serene, 
Has but approached the gates of woman- 
hood, 
Not entered them ; her heart is yet un- 

pierced 
6y the blind Archer-god ; her fancy free : 
The fount of feeling, if unsought elsewhere, 
Will not be found. 

Her right hand, as it lies 
Across the slender wrist of the left arm 
Upon her lap reposing, holds — but mark 
How slackly, for the absent mind permits 
No Hrmer grasp — a little wild-flower, joined 
As in a posy, with a few pale ears 
Of yellowing corn, the same that over- 
topped 
And m their common birthplace sheltered it 
'Till they were plucked together ; a blue 

flower 
Called by the thrifty husbandman a weed ; 
but Ceres, in her garland, might have worn 
That ornament, unblamed. The floweret, 

lield 
In scarcely conscious fingers, was, she 

knows, 
(Her Father told her so) in youth's gay 

dawn 
Her Mother's favorite; and the orplian 

Girl, 
In hef own dawn — a dawn less gay and 

bright, 
Loves it, while there in solitary peace 
She sits, for that departed Mother's sake, 
— Not from a source less sacred is derived 
(Surely 1 do not err) that pensive air 
Of calm abstraction through the face dif- 
fused 
A Md the whole person. 

Words have something told 
More than the pencil can, and verily 
More than is needed, but the precious Art 
Forgives their interference — Art divine 
That both creates and fixes, in despite 
Of Death and Time, the marvels it hath 
wrought. 

Strange contrasts have we in this world of 

ours ! 
That posture, and the look of filial love 
Thinking of past and gone, with what is 

left 
Dearly united, might be swept away 
From this fair Portrait's fleshly Archetype, 
Even by an innocent fancy's slightest freak | 



Banished, nor ever, haply, be restored 
To their lost place, or meet in harmony 
So exquisite ; but here do they abide, 
Enshiined for ages. Is not then the Art 
Godlike, a humble branch of the divine. 
In visible quest of immortality, 
Stretched forth with trembling hope -'—In 

every realm, 
From high Gibraltar to Siberian plains. 
Thousands, in each variety of tongue 
That Europe knows, would echo this ap- 
peal ; 
One above all, a Monk who waits on God 
In the magnific Convent built of yore 
To sanctity the Escurial palace. He — 
Guiding, from cell to cell and room to room, 
A British Painter (eminent for truth 
In character, and depth of feeling shown 
By labors that have touched the hearts of 

kings, 
And are endeared to simple cottagers) — 
Came, in that service, to a glorious work, 
Our Lord's Last Supper, beautiful as when 

first 
The appropriate Picture, fresh from Titian's 

hand. 
Graced the Refectory : and there, while 

both 
Stood with eyes fixed upon that master- 
piece, 
The hoary Father in the Stranger's ear 
Breathed out these words : — " Here dailv do 

we sit. 
Thanks given to God for daily bread, and 

here 
Pondering the mischiefs of these restless 

times. 
And thuiking of my Brethren, dead, dis- 

puised. 
Or ciianged and changing, I not seldom 

gaze 
Upon this solemn Company unmoved 
By shock of circumstance, or lapse of years, 
Unt'.l I cannot but believe that they — 
They are in truth the Substance, we the 

Shadows.'' 

So spake the rnild Jeronymite, his griefs 
Melting away within him like a dream 
Ere he had ceased to gaze, perhaps to 

speak ; 
And I, grown old, but in a hajipier land, 
Domestic Portrait ! have to verse consigned 
In thv calm presence those heart-moving 

wf)rds : 
Words that can soothe, more tlian they 

agitate ; 



FORMS OF SFNTIMFNT AJVD REFLECTION 



437 



Whose spirit, like the angel that went down 
Into Bethcsda's pool, with healing virtue 
Informs the fountain in the human breast 
Whicli by the visitation was disturbed. 
■ But'wliy this stealing ^car ? Companion 

mute, 
On thee, I look, not sorrowing, fare thee 

well, 
My Song's Inspircr, once again farewell 1 * 



THE FOREGOING SUBJECT RESUMED. 

Among a grave fraternity of Monks, 
For One, but surely not for One alone, 
Triumplis, in that great work, the Painter's 

skill, 
Humbling the body, to exalt the soul ; 
Yet representing, amid wreck and wrong 
And dissolution and decay, the warm 
And breathing life of flesh, as if already 
Clothed with impassive majesty, and graced 
With no mean earnest of a heritage 
Assigned to it in future worlds. Thou, too. 
With thy memorial flower, meek Portraiture! 
From whose serene companionship 1 passed 
Pursued by thoughts that haunt me still ; 

thou also— 
Though but a simple object, into light. 
Called forth by those affections that endear 
The private hearth ; though keeping thy 

soJe seat 
In singleness, and little fried by time, 
Creation, as it were, of yesterday — 
With a congenial function art endued 
For each and all of us, together joined 
In course of nature under a low roof 
By charities and duties tliat proceed 
Out of the bosom of a wiser vow. 
To a like salutary sense of awe 
Or sacred wonder, growing with the power 
Of meditation that attempts to weigh. 
In faitliful scales, things and their opposites, 
Can thy enduring cjuict gently raise 
A housciiold small and sensitive, — whose 

love, 
Dcpir-dcnt as in part its blessings are 

* The pile of buildings, composing the palace 
and convent of San Lorenzo, lias, in common 
usage, lost its proper name in that of the Escu- 
rial, a village at the foot of the lii'.l ui:on which 
the splendid edifice, built by Pliilipthe Second, 
stPnds. I-, need scarcp''yl)e adduJ, that Wilkio 
IS the painter alluded lu. 



Upon frail ties dissolving or dissolved 
On earth, will be revived, we trust, 
heaven.f 
1S34. 



So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive, 
Woiikl that tlie little Flowers were born to 

live. 
Conscious of half the pleasure which they 

give; 

That to this mountain-daisy's self were 

known 
The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, 

thrown 
On the smooth surface of this naked stone 1 

And what if hence a bold desire should 

mount 
High as the Sun, that he could take account 
Of all the issues from his glorious fount ! 

So might he ken how by his sovereign aid 
These delicate companionships are made • 
And how he rules the pomp of hght and 
shade : 

And were the Sister-power that shines by 

night 
So privileged, what a countenance of dc' 

light 
Would through the clouds break forth on 

human sight ! 

Fond fancies ! whercsoe'er shall turn thine 

eye 
On cartli, air, ocean, or the starry sky, 
Converse with Nature in pure sympatliy ; 

All vain desires, all lawless WMshes quelled, 
De Thou to love and praise ali'<c iiiipellecl, 
Whatever boon is granted or withheld. 



t In the class entitled * Musings,' in Mr. 
Southey's Minor Poems, is one upon his own 
miniaure Picture, taken in cliildhood, and 
another upon a landscape painted by Gaspar 
Poussin. It is possible that every word of the 
above verses, though similar in subject, might 
have been written had the autlior been unac- 
quainted with those beautiful effusions of [loetic 
sentiment. But, for his own satisfaction, he 
must be allowed tlius publicly to acknowledge 
the pleasure those two Poems of his Friend 
h.ive given him, and t!ie grateful nitlueiice they 
have upon his miud as ofte:i as he reads them, 
or Uiinks A the.iu. 



43 S SGN-JVETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY AND ORDER 



UPON SEEING A COLORED DRAWING OF 
THE BIRD OF FARADISE IN AN ALBUM. 

Who rashly strove thy Imaqe to portray ? 
Thou buoyant minion of the tropic air ; 
How could he think of the live creature — 

With a divinity of colors, drest 

In all her brightness, from the dancing crest 

Far as the last gleam of the filmy train 

Extended and extending to sustain 

The motions that it graces — and forbear 

To drop his pencil ! Flowers of every clime 

Depicted on these pages smile at time ; 

And gorgeous insects copied with nice care 

Are here, and likenesses of many a shell 

Tossed ashore by restless waves, 

Or in the diver's grasp fetched up from 

caves 
Where sea-nymphs might be proud to dwell ; 
But whose rash hand (again I ask) could 

dare, 
'Mid casual tokens and promiscuous shows, 
To circumscribe this siiape in fixed repose ; 
Could imitate for indolent survey, 
Perhaps for touch profane, 
Plumes that might catch, but cannot keep, a 

&tain ; 



And, with cloud-streaks lightest and loftiest, 

share 
The sun's first greeting, his last farewell ray ? 



Resplendent Wanderer 1 followed with 

glad eyes 
Where'er her course ; mysterious Bird! 
To whom, by wondering Fancy stirred, 
Eastern Islanders have given 
A holy name — the Bird of Heaven ! 
And even a title higher still, 
The Bird of God ! whose blessed will 
She seems i-)erfonning as she flies 
Over tlic earth and through the skies 
In never-wearied search of Paradise — 
Region tiiat crowns her beauty with tlia 

name 
She bears for us — for us how blest. 
How happy at all seasons, could like um 
Uphold our Spirits urged to kindred flighi 
On wings that fear no glance of God's pure 

sight, 
No tempe t from his breath, their promised 

rest 
Seeking with indefatigable quest 
Above a world that deems itself most wise 
When most enslaved by gross realities i 



SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY AND ORDER. 



COMPOSED AFTER READING A NEWS- 
PAPER OF THE DAY. 

" People I your chains are severing link 

by link : 
Soon shall the Rich be levelled down — the 

Poor 
Meet them halt-way." Vain boast! for 

These, the more 
They thus would rise, must low and lower 

sink 
Till, by repentance stung, they fear to 

think , 
While all lie prostrate, save the tyrant few 
Bent In quick turns each other to undo, 
. And mix the poison they themselves must 

drink. 
Mistrust thyself, vain Country! cease to 

cry, 



" Knowledge will save me trom the threat- 
ened woe." 
For, it than other rash ones more thou 

know. 
Vet on presumptuous wing as far would tiy 
Above thy knowledge as they dared to go, 
Thou wilt provoke a heavier penalty. 



upon the LATE GENERAL FAST.. 

March, 1832. 

Aeluctant call it was , the rite delayen , 
Rnd in the Senate some there were whc* 

doffed 
The last of their humanity, and scoffed 
At providential judgments, undismayed 
By their own daring. But the PeopU 

prayed 



SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY AND ORDER. 439 



As with one voice ; their flinty heart grew 

soft 
With penitential sorrow, and aloft 
Tlieir spirit mounted, crying, "God us 

aid ! " 
Oil tliat with aspirations more intense, 
Chastised 'by self-abasement more profound, 
This People, once so happy, so renowned 
For hberty, would seek from God delence 
! Against far heavier ill, tiie pestilence 
Of revolution, impiously unbound 1 



ft 



III. 



Said Secrecy to Cowardice and Fraud, 
Falsehood and Treachery, in close council 

met, 
Deep under ground, in Pluto's cabinet, 
" The frost of England's pride will soon be 

thawed ; 
Hooded the open brow that overawed 
Our schemes ; the faith and honor, never 

yet 
By us with hope encountered, be upset ; — 
For once I burst my bands, and cry, ap- 
plaud ! ** 
Then whispered she, " The Bill is carrying 

out!" 
Thev heard, and, starting up, the Brood of 

'Night 
Clapped hands, and shook witli glee their 

matted locks ; 
All Powers and places that abhor the light 
Joined in the transport, echoed back their 

shout. 
Hurrah for , hugging his Ballot-box ! 

IV, 

Blest Statesman He, whose Mind's un 

£elfi>h Will 
Leaves him at ease among grand thoughts 

whose eye 
Sees that, apart from magnanimity, 
Wisdom exists not ; nor the humbler skill 
•Of Prudence, disentangling good and ill 
With patient care. What tho' assaults run 

They daunt not him who holds his minis- 
, try, 

; Resolute, at all hazards, to fulfil 

Its duties ;^prompt to move, but firm to 
wait, — 

Knowing, things rashly sought are rarely 
found • 

That, for the functions of an ancient State — 

Strong by her charters, free because im- 
, bound, 



Servant of Providence, not slave of Fate- 
Perilous is sweeping change, all chance un- 
sound. 

V. 
IN ALLUSION TO VARIOUS RECENT HIS- 
TORIES AND NOTICES OF THE E RENCH 
REVOLUTION 

Portentous change when History can ap- 
pear 

As the cool Advocate of foul device ; 

Reckless audacity extol, and jeer 

At consciences perplexed with scruples 
nice ! 

They who bewail not must abhor the sneer 

Born of Conceit, Power's blind Idolater ; 

Or haply sprung from vaunting Cowardice 

Betrayed by mockery of holy fear. 

Hath it not long been said the wrath of 
Man 

Works not the righteousness of God? Oh 
bend, 

Bend, ye Perverse ! to judgments from on 
High, 

Laws that lay under Heaven's perpetual 
ban 

All principles of action that transcend 

The sacred limits of humanity. 

VI. 
CONTINUED. 

Who ponders National events shall find 
An awful balancing of loss and gain 
Joy based on sorrow, good with ill com- 
bined. 
And proud deliverance issuing out of pain 
And direful throes ; as if the All-ruling 

Mind, 
With whose perfection it consists to ordain 
Volcanic burst, earthc|uake, and hurricane, 
Dealt in like sort with feeble human kind 
By laws immutable. But woe for him 
Who thus deceived shall lend an eager hand 
To social havoc. Is not Conscience curs, 
And Trutli, whose eye guilt only can make 

dim , 
And Will, whose office, by divine command. 
Is to control and check disordered Powers* 

VII. 
CONCLUDED 

LoNG-FAVORED England ! be not tViou 

misled 
By monstrous theories of alien growth, 
Lest alien frenzy seize thee, waxing wioth, 
Self-smitten till thy garments reek, d>ed red 



i40 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY AND ORDER. 



With thy own blood, which tears in torrents 

shed 
Fail to wash out, tears flowing; ere thy troth 
Be plighted, not to ease but sullen sloth, 
Or wan despair — the ghost of false hope 

fled 
Into a shameful grave. Among thy youth, 
My Country! if such warning be lield dear, 
Then shall a Veteran's heart be thrilled with 

joy, 
One who would gather from eternal truth. 
For time and season, rules that work to 

cheer — 
Not scourge, to save the People — not de- 
stroy 



Men of tlie Western World! in Fate's dark 

book 
Whence these opprobrious leaves of dire por 

tent ? 
Tliink ye your British ancestors forsook 
Tiieir native Land, for outrage provident ; 
From unsubmissive necks the bridle shook 
To give, in their Descendants, freer vent 
And wider range to passions turbulent. 
To mutual tyranny, a deadlier look ^ 
Nay, said a voice, soft as the south wind's 

breath, 
Dive through the stormy surface of the 

flood 
To tlie great current flowing underneath ; 
Explore the countless springs of silent 

good ; 
So siiall the truth be better understood. 
And thv grieved Spirit brighten strong in 

faith. 

IX 

TO THE r-ENNSYLVANlANS 

Days undcfiled by luxury or sloth, 

Firm self-denial, manners grave and staid. 

Rights equal, laws with cheerfulness 

obeyed, 
Wo-.ds that require no sanction from an 

oath. 
And simple honsnty a common growth — 
This high repute, with bounteous Nature's 

aid. 
Won confidence, now ruthlessly betrayed 
At will, your power the measure of your 

troth !— 
All who revere the memory of Penn 
Grieve for the land on whose wild woods his 

name 
Was fondly grafted with a virtuous aim. 
Renounced, abandoned by degenerate Men 



For state-dishonor black as ever came 
To upper air from Mammon's loathsomi 
den. 



AT POLOGNA, IN REMEMBRANXE OF THE 
LATE INSURRECTIONS, 1837. 

Ah why deceive ourselves ! by no mere fit 
Of sudden passion roused shall men attain 
True freedom where for ages they have 

lain 
Bound in a dark abominable pit. 
With life's best sinews more and more un 

knit. 
Here, there, a banded few who loathe the 

Chain 
May rise to break it . effort worse than vam 
For thee, O great Italian nation, split 
Into those jarring factions. — Let thy scope 
Be one fixed mind for all ; thy rights <ip- 

prove 
To thy own conscience gradually renewed ; 
Learn to make Time the father of wise 

Hope ; 
Then trust thy cause to the arm of Forti- 
tude, 

hi 

Love. 

XI. 

CONTINUED. 

II. -> I 

Hard task 1 exclaim the undisciplined. t», 
lean 

On Patience coupled witli such slow en- 
deavor 

That long-lived servitude must last forever. 

Pcriiih tiie grovelling few, who, prest be- 
tween 

Wrongs and the terror of redress, would 
wean 

Millions from glorious aims. Our chains to 
sever 

Let us break forth in tempest now or 
never !— 

What, is there then no space for golden 
mean 

And gradual progress ? — Twilight leads to 
day. 

And, even wit/.un the burning zones of 
earth. 

The hastiest sunrise yields a temperate 
rav ; 

The softest breeze to fairest flowers givei 
birth ; 



SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY ANL OKDER. 44] 



Think not that Prudence dwells in dark 

abodes, 
She scans the future with the eye of gods. 

XH. 

CONCLUDED. 
III. 

As ieaves are to the tree whereon they 

jrow 
And witiier, every human generation 
Is to the Being of a mighty nation, 
Locked in our world's embrace through 

weal and woe ; 
Thought that should teach the zealot to 

forego 
Rash schemes, to abjure all selfish agitation, 
And seek through noiseless pains and mod- 
eration 
The unblemished good they only can be- 
stow. 
Alas ! with most who weigh futurity 
Agamst time present, passion holds the 

scales : 
Hence equal ignorance of both prevails, 
And nations sink ; or, staigghng to be free, 
Are doomed to flounder on, like wounded 

v.'hales 
Tossed on the bosom of a stormy sea 



Young England — what is then become 

of Old, ^ 
Of dear Old J^n gland ? Think tlicy she is 



Dead to the very name ? Presumption fed 
On empty air ! That name will keep its 

hold 
In the true filial bosom's inmost fold 
Forever.— The Spir't of Alfred at the head 
Of all who for her rights watch'd, toil'd and 

bled 
Knows that this prophecy is not too bold. 
What— how ! shall she submit in will and 

deed 
To Beardless Boys— an imitative race, 
The servuin pccus of a Gallic breed 'i 
Dear Mother ! if thou must thy steps re- 
trace, 
Go where at least meek Innocency dwells; 
Let Babes and Sucklings be thy oracles. 



Feel for the wrongs to universal ken 
Daily exposed, woe that unshrouded lies ; 
And seek tlie Sufferer in liis darkest den. 
Whether conducted to the spot by siglis 
And moanings, or lie dwells (as if the wren 
Taught him concealment) hidden from all 

eyes 
In silence and the awful modesties 
Of sorrow ;— feel for all, .ts brother Men : 
Rest not in hope want's icy chain to thaw 
By casual boons and formal charities; 
Learn to be just, just tlirough impartial 

law; 
Far as ye may, erect and equalize; 
And, wiiat yc cannot reach bv statute, draw 
Each from his fountain of seif-sacrilice \ 



442 SO/VNETS UPON 77 J E PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. 



SONNETS UPON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. 

IN SERIES. 



suggested by the view of lancaster 
castle (on the road from the 
south). 

This Spot — at once unfolding si,i::;ht so fair 
Of sea and land, with 3'on gray towers that 

still 
Rise up as if to lord it over air — 
Might soothe in human breasts the sense of 

' ill, 
Or charm it out of memory ; yea, might fill 
The heart with joy and gratitude to God 
For all his bounties upon man bestowed : 
Why bears it then the nane of " Weeping 

Hill?'-' 
Thousands, as towards yon old Lancastrian 

Towers, 
A prison's crown, along this way they past 
For lingering durance or quick death with 

shame. 
From this bare eminence thereon have cast 
Their first look — blinded as tears fell in 

showers 
Shed on their chains ; and hence that dole- 
ful name. 

n. 
Tenderly do we feel by Nature's law 
For worst offenders : though the heart will 

lieavc 
With indignation, deeply moved we grieve, 
In after thouglit, for Him who stood in awe 
Neither of God nor man, and only saw, 
I.ost wretch, a iiorrible device enthroned 
(3n proud temptations, till the victim 

groaned 
Under the steel his hand had dared to 

draw. 
But O, restrain compassion, if its course, 
As oft befalls, prevent or turn aside 
Judgments and aims and acts whose higher 

source 
Is sympathy with the unforcwarned, who 

diad 



Blameless — with them that shuddered o'eJ 

his grave. 
And all who from the law firm safety crave» 

in. 

The Roman Consul doomed his sons to 

die 
Wiio had betrayed their country. The 

stern word 
Afforded (may it through all time afford) 
A theme for praise and adnuration high. 
Upon the surface of humanity 
He rested not; its deptlis his mind ex- 
plored ; 
He felt ; but his parental bosom's lord 
Was Duty, — Duty calmed his agony. 
And some, we know, when they by wilful 

act 
h. single human life have wrongly taken, 
Pass sentence on themselves, confess the 

fact, 
And, to atone for it, with soul unshaken 
Kneel at the feet of Justice, and, for faith 
Broken with all mankind, solicit death. 

IV. 

Is Death, when evil against good has 

fought 
With such fell mastery that a man may 

dare 
By deeds the blackest innpf)se to lay bare — 
Is Death, for one to that condition brought 
For him, or any one, the thing that ought 
To be vwst dreaded ? Lawgivers, beware, 
Lest, capital pains remitting till ye spare 
The murderer, ye, by sanction to thai 

thought 
Seemingly given, debase the general mind ; 
Tempt the vague will tried standards to 

disown, 
Nor only palpable r-^straints unbind, 
But upon Honor's head disturb the crown, 
Wliose absolute rule jiermits not to with- 
stand 
In the weak love of life his least command. 



SONNETS UPON IJIE PUNISHMENT OE DEATH. 



443 



V. 

Not to the object specially desisined, 

Howe'er momentous in itself it be, 

Good to promote or cub depravity, 

Is the wise Legislator's view confined. 

His Spirit_ wlien most severe, is oft most 

kind ; 
As all Authority in earth depends 
On Love and Fear, their several powers he 

blends, 
Copyins; with awe the one Paternal mind, 
Uncaught by jMocesses in shew hnniaivj, 
lie feels how far the act would derogate 
From even the humblest functions of the 

State ; " 
If she, self shorn of Majesty, ordain 
That never more shall hang upon her 

breath 
The last alternative of Life or Death. 



VI. 

Ye brood of conscience — Spectres ! that 

frequent 
The bad Man's restless walk, and haunt his 

bed- 
Fiends in your aspect, yet beneficent 
In act, as hovering Angels when they 

spread 
Their wings to guard the unconscious Inno- 
cent- 
Slow be the Statutes of the land to share 
A laxity that could not but impair 
Your power to punish crime, and so jmc- 

vent. 
And ye, Beliefs ! coiled serpent-like alx)ut 
The adage on all tongues, " Muiuer will 

out,'' 
How shall your ancient warnings work for 

good 
In the full might they hitherto have shown, 
If for deliberate shedder of man's blood 
^Survive not Judgment that requires his 

own? 



Before the world had past her time of 
youth 

While polity and discipline were weak, 

The precept eye for eye, and tooth for 
tooth, 

Came forth — a light, though but as of day- 
break. 

Strong as could then be borne. A Master 
meek 

Proscribed the spirit fostered by that rule, 



Patience his law, long-suffering his school, 
And love the end, which all through peace 

must seek. 
Rut lamentably do they err who strain 
His mandates, given rash impulse to con 

trol 
And keep vindictive thirstings from the 

soul, 
So far that, if consistent in their scheme. 
They must forbid the State to inflict a pain, 
Making of social order a mere dream. 



Fit retribution, by the moral code. 
Determined, lies beyond the State's em- 
brace, 
^'et, as she may, for each peculiar case 
She plants well measured terrors m the 

road 
Of wrongful acts. Downward it is and 

broad, 
And, the main fear once doomed to banish- 
ment. 
Far oftener then, ba-d ushering worse event, 
lUood would be spilt that in his dark abode 
Crime might lie better hid. And, should 

the change 
Take from the horror due to a foul deed. 
Pursuit and evidence so far must fail, 
And, guilt escaping, passion then might 

plead 
In angry spirits for her old free range, 
And the "wild justice of revenge'* prevail. 



Though to give timely warning and deter 
Is one great aim of penalty, extend 
Thy mental vision further and ascend 
Far higher, else full surely shalt thou err 
What is a State ? The wise behold m her 
A creature born of time, that keeps one eye 
Fixed on the statutes of Eternity, 
To which her judgments reverently defer. 
Speaking through Law's dispassionate voice, 

the State 
L ndues her conscience with external life 
And being, to preclude or quell the strife 
Of individual will, to elevate 
The grovelling mind, the erring to recall, 
And fortify the moral sense of all. 



Our bodily life, some plead, that lif; the 

shrine 
Of an immortal spirit, is a gift 
So sacred, so informed with light divine, 



VA 



SO AWE TS UPON T//E PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. 



That no tribunal, thoiij;h most wise to sift 
Deed and intent, should turn the Being 

adrift 
Into that world where penitential tear 
May not avail, nor prayer have for God's 

ear 
A voice — that world whose veil no hand can 

lift 
For earthly sight. " Eternity and Time," 
Tlicy urge, " have interwoven claims and 

riglits 
Not to be jeopardized through foulest 

crime : 
The sentence rule by mercy's heaven-born 

lights." 
Even so ; but measuring not by finite sense 
Infinite Power, perfect Intelligence. 

XI. 

Ah, think how one compelled for life to 

abide 
Locked in a dungeon needs must eat the 

heart 
Out of iiis own humanity, and part 
With every hope that mutual cares provide ; 
And. should a less unnatural doom confide 
In life-long exile on a savage coast. 
Soon the relapsing penitent may boast 
Of yet more heinous guilt, with fiercer 

pride. 
Hence thoughtful Mercy, Mercy sage and 

pure, 
.'^auctions the forfeiture that Law demands, 
Leaving the final issue in His hands 
Whose goodness knows no change, whose 

love is sure. 
Who sees, foresees; who cannot judge 

amiss, 
And wafts at will the contrite soul to bliss, 

XII. 

See the Condemned alone within his cell 
And prostrate at some moment when re- 
morse 
Stings to the quick, and, with resistless 

force, 
Assaults the pride she strove in vain to 

quell. 
Then mark him, him who could so long re- 
bel, 
The crime confessed, a kneeling Penitent 
l5efore the Altar, where the Sacrament 
Softens his heart, till from his eyes outwell 
Tears of salvation. Welcome death ! wliile 

Heaven 
Does in this change exceedingly rejoice ; 



While yet the solemn heed the State hath 

given 
Helps him to meet the last Tribunal's voice 
In faith, which fresh offences, were he cast 
On old temptations, might forever blast. 



CONCLUSION. 

Yes, though He well may tremble at the 

sound 
Of his own voice, who from the judgment- 
seat 
Sends the pale Convict to his last retreat 
In dcatli ; though Listeners shudder all 

around. 
They know the dread requital's source pro- 
found ; 
Nor is, they feel, its wisdom obsolete — 
(Would tiiat it were !) the sacrifice unmeet 
For Christian Fa th. But hopeful signs 

abound 
The social rights of man breathe purer air; 
Religion deepens her preventive care ; 
Then, moved by needless fear of past abuse, 
Strike not from Law's firm hand that awful 

lod. 
But leave it thence to rijop for lack of use : 
Oil, speed the blessed hour. Almighty God! 

XIV, 



The formal World relaxes her cold chain 
For One who speaks in numbers ; ampler 

scope 
His utterance finds ; and, conscious of lh» 

gain. 
Imagination works with bolder hope 
The cause of grateful reason to sustain ; 
And, serving Truth, the heart more strongly 

beats 
Against all barriers which his labor meets 
In loftv place, or humble Lift's domain. 
Enough ;— before us lay a painful road. 
And guidance have 1 sought in duteous 

love 
From U'isdom's heavenly Father. Hence 

hath flowed 
Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the 

way 
Each takes in this high matter, all may 

move 
Cheered with tlie prospect of a brighter 

day. 
1840. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



EPISTLE 

ro Sm GEORGE HOWLANU BEAUMONT, 

BART. 
FROM THE SOUTH-WEST COAST OF CUM- 
BERLAND.— l8l I. 

Far from our home by Grasmere's quiet 

Lake, 
From the Vale's peace whicii all her fields 

partake, 
Here on the bleakest point of Cumbria's 

shore 
We sojourn stunned by Ocean's ceaseless 

roar: 
V\ hie day by day, grim neighbor! huge 

Black Comb 
Frown.-) deepening visibly his native gloom, 
Unless, perchance rejecting in despite 
What on the Plain we have of v\armth and 

light, 
In his own storms he hides himself from 

sight. 
Rough is the time; and thoughts, that 

would be free 
From heaviness, oft fly, dear Friend, to 

thee; 
Turn from a spot where neither sheltered 

road 
Nor hedge-row screen invites my steps 

abroad ; 
Where one poor Plane-tree, having as it 

might 
Attained a st.iture twice a tall man's height, 
Hopeless of further growth, and brown and 

sere 
Through half the summer, stands with top 

cut sheer, 
Like an unshifting weathercock which 

proves 
How cold the quarter that the wind best 

loves. 
Or like a sentinel that, evermore 
Darkening the window, ill defends the door 
Of this unfinished house— a Fortress bare, 
Where strength has been the Builder's only 

care; [mand 

Whose rugged walls may still for years de- 



The final polish of the Plasterer's hand. 
— This Dwelling's Inmate more than thre« 

weeks' space 
And oft a Prisoner in the cheerless place, 
1— of whose touch the fiddle would com- 
plain, 
Whose breath would labor at the flute in 

vain. 
In music all unversed, nor blessed ■.. tl» 

skill 
A bridge to copy, or to paint a mill, 
Tired of my books, a scanty company ! 
And tired of listening to the boisterous 

sea — 
Pace between door and window muttering 

rhyme, 
An old resource to cheat a froward time ! 
Though these dull hours (mine is it, or 

their shame?) 
Would tempt me to renounce that humble 

aim. 
— But if there be a Muse who, free to take 
Her seat upon Olympus, doth forsake 
Those heights (like Phoebus when liis golden 

locks 
He veiled, attendant on Thessalian flocks) 
And, in disguise, a Milkmaid with her pail 
Trips down the pathways of some winding 

dale ; 
Or, like a Mermaid, warbles on the shores 
To fishers mending nets beside their doors; 
Or, Pi!grim-like, on forest moss reclined, 
Gives plaintive ditties to the heedless wind, 
Or listens to its play among the bouglis 
Above her head and so forgets her vows — 
If such a Visitant of Earth there be 
Aud she would deign this day to smile on 

me 
And aid my verse, content with local boundB 
Of natural beauty and life's daily rounds, 
Thoughts, chances, sights, or doings, which 

we tell 
Without reserve to those whom we lov^= 

well — 
Then haply, Beaumont ! words in current 

clear 
Will flow, and on a welcome page appear 
Duly before thy sight, unless they perish 

iiere. 

(44S) 



44^. 



MrSCFJJ.Ah'ROUS POEMS. 



What shall I treat ui ? News from Mona's 
Isle^ 

Such have we, but unvaried in its style ; 

No tales of Runagates fresh landed, whence 

And wherefore fugitive or on what pretence ; 

Of feasts, or scandal, eddying like the wind 

Most restlessly alive when most confined. 

Ask not of me, whose tongue can best ap- 
pease 

The mighty tumults of the House of 
Keys ; 

The last year's cup whose Ram or Heifer 
gained, 

What slopes are planted, or what mosses 
drained . 

An eye of fancy only can I cast 

On tluit proud pageant now at hand or past. 

When full five hundred boats in trim array, 

With nets and sails outspread and streamers 

And chanted hymns and stiller voice of 
prayer, 

For the old Manx-harvest to the Deep re- 
pair. 

Soon as the herring-shoals at distance shine 

Like beds of moonlight shifting on the brine. 

Mona from our Abode is daily seen. 
But with a wilderness of waves between ; 
And by conjecture only can we speak 
Of aught transacted there in bay or creek ; 
No tidings reach us thence from town or 

field; 
Only faint news her mountain sunbeams 

yield, 
K\C some we gather from the misty air. 
And some the hovering clouds, our telegraph, 

declare. 
Ji\\\. these poetic mysteries I withhold ; 
For Fancy liath her fits both hot and cold, 
And should the colder fit with You be on 
When you might read, my credit would be 

gone. 

Let more substantial themes the pen en- 
gage, 
A.nd nearer interests culled from the open- 
ing stage 
Of our migration. — Ere the welcome dawn 
Had from the cast her silver star with- 
drawn, 
The Wain stood ready, at our Cottage-door, 
Thoughtlully freighted with a various store ; 
And long or e'er the uprising of the Sun 
O'er dew-damped dust our journey was be- 

giin» 
A needful journey, un4er favoring skies, 



Through peopled Vales ; yet something itt 

the guise 
Of those old Patriarchs when from well to 

well 
They roam through Wastes where now tha 

tented Arabs dwell. 

Sav first, to whom did we the charge con 

fide. 
Who promptly undertook the Wain to guide 
Up many a sharply-twining road and down, 
And over many a wide hill's craggy crown, 
Through the quick turns of many a hollow 

nook, 
And the rough bed of many an unbridgcd 

brook ? 
A blooming Lass — wlio in her better ban 1 
Bore a light switch, her sceptre of command 
Wlien, yet a slender Girl, she often led, 
Skilful and bold, the horse and burthened 

From the peat-yielding Moss on Gowdar's 

head. 
What could go wrong with such a Charioteer 
For goods and chattels, or those Inf;4nis 

dear, 
A Pair who smilingly sate side by side. 
Our hope comfirming that the salt-sea tide, 
Whose free embraces we were bound to 

seek. 
Would their lost strength restore and freshen 

the pale cheek ? 
Such hope did either Parent entertain 
Pacing behind along the silent lane. 

Blithe hopes and happy musings soon took 

liight, 
For lo ! an uncouth melancholy sight— - 
On a green bank a creature stood forlorn 
Just half protruded to tlie light of morn. 
Its hinder part concealed by hedge-row 

thorn. 
The Figure called to mind a beast of prey 
Stript of its frightful powers by slow decay, 
And, though no longer upon rapine bent, 
Dim memc ry keeping of its old intent. 
We started, looked again with anxious eyes, 
And in that griesly object recognize 
The Curate's Dog — his long-tried friend, for 

tliey. 
As well we knew, together had grown gray. 
The Master died, his drocping servant'l 

grief 
Found at tlie Widow's feet some sad relief, 

• A .ucui word for Sledge. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



447 



Vet still he livtd in pinint^ discontent, 
Sadness which no indulgence could pre- 
vent; 
Hence whole day wanderings, broken night- 
ly sleeps 
And lonesome watch that out of doors he 

keeps ; 
Not oftentimes, I trust, as we, poor brute ! 
Espied him on his legs sustained, blank, 

mute, 
And of all visible motion destitute, 
5o that the very heaving of his breath 
Seemed stopt, though by some other power 

than death. 
Long as we gazed upon the i\,x\-\\ and f?ce, 
A mild domestic pity kept its piace, 
Unscared by thronging fancies of strange 
■ hue 

That haunted us in spite of what we knew. 
Even now I sometimes think of him as lost 
In second-sight appearances, or crost 
By spectral shapes of guilt, or to the 

ground, 
On which he stood, by spells unnatural 

bound, 
Like a gaunt shaggy Porter forced to wait 
In days of old romance at Archimago's gate. 

Advancing Summer, Nature's law ful- 
filled, 
The choristers in every grove had stilled ; 
But we, we lacked not music of our own, 
For lightsome Fanny had thus early thrown, 
Mid tiie gay prattle of those infant tongues, 
;)ome notes prelusive, from the round of 

songs 
With which, more zealous than the liveliest 

bird 
That in wild Arden's brakes was ever heard. 
Her work and her work's partners she can 

cheer, 
The whole day long, and all days of the 
year. 

Thus gladdened from our own dear Vale 
we pass 
And soon approach Diana's Looking-glass! 
To Loughrigg-tarn, round clear and bright 
I as heaven, 

Si.ch name Italian fancy would have given, 
I F.re on its banks tlie few gray cabins rose 

That yet disturb not its concealed repose 
More than the feeblest wind that idly blows. 

Ah, Beaumont ! when an opening in the 
road 
Stopped me at once by charm of what it 
showed, 



The encircling region vividly exprest 
Within the mirror's depth, a world at rest— . 
Sky streaked with purple, grove and craggy 

bield* 
And the smooth green of many a pendent 

field, 
And, quieted and soothed, a torrent small, 
A little daring would-be waterfall, 
One chimney smoking and its azure wreath. 
Associate all in the calm Pool beneath. 
With here and there a faint imperfect gleam 
Of water-lilies veiled in misty steam — 
What wonder at this hour of stillness deep, 
A shadowy link 'tween wakefulness and 

sleep. 
When Nature's self, amid such blending, 

seems 
To render visible her own soft dreams, 
If, mixed with what appeared of rock, lawn, 

wood, 
Fondly eiiil o omed in the tranquil flood, 
A glimpse 1 caugiit of that Abode, by Thee 
Designed to rise in humble privacy, 
A lowly Dwelling, here to be outspread, 
Like a small Hamlet, with its bashful head 
Half hid in native trees. Alas 'tis not. 
Nor ever was ; I sighed, and left the spot 
Unconscious of its own untoward lot. 
And thought in silence, with regret too keen, 
Of unexperienced joys that might have 

been ; 
Of neighborhood and interraingling arts, 
And golden summer days uniting cheerful 

hearts. 
But time, irrevocable time, is flowi\ 
And let us utter thanks for blessings sown 
And reaped — what hath been, and what is, 

our own. 

Not far we travelled ere a shout of glee, 
Startling us all, dispersed my reverie ; 
Such shout as many a sportive echo meet- 
ing 
Oft-times from Alpine chalets sends a greet- 
ing. 
Whence the blithe hail ? behold a Peasar t 

stand 
On high, a kerchief waving in her hand ! 
Not unexpectant that by early day 
Our little Band would thrid this mountain 

way. 
Before her cottage on the bright hillside 
She hath advanced with hope to be descried. 



* A word common in the country, signifying 
iheltei, ai in Scotland. 



44.S 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Right gladly answering signals we dis- 
played, 
Moving along a tract of morning shade, 
And vocal wishes sent of like good-will 
To our kind Friend higli on the sunny hill — 
Luminous region, fair as if the )jiime 
Were tempting all astir to look aloft or 

climb ; 
Only the centre of the shining cot 
With door left open makes a gloomy spot, 
Emblem of those dark corners sometimes 

found 
Within the happiest breast on earthly 
ground. 

Rich prospect left behind of stream and 

vale. 
And mountain-tops, a barren ridge we 

scale ; 
Descend and reach, in Yewdale's depths, a 

plain 
With haycocks studded, striped with yellow- 
ing grain- - 
An area level as a Lake and spread 
Under a rock too steep for man to tread, 
Where shelterea from the North and bleak 

north-west 
Aloft the Raven hangs a visible nest. 
Fearless of all assaults that would her brood 

molest. 
Hot sunbeams fill the steaming vale ; but 

hark, 
At our approach, a jealous watch-dog's 

bark. 
Noise that brings forth no liveried Page of 

state. 
But the whole household, that our ccming 

wait. 
With Young and Old warm greetings we 

exchange. 
And jocund smiles, and toward the lowly 

Grange 
Press forward by the teasing dogs unscared. 
Entering, we find the morning meal pre- 
pared : 
So down we sit, though not till each had 

cast 
Pleased looks around the delicate repast — 
Rich cream, and snow-white eggs fresli from 

the nest, 
With amber honey from the mountam's 

breast ; 
Strawberries fioni lane or woodland, offering 

wild 
Of children's industry, in hillocks piled ; 
Cakes for the nonce, and butter fii to lie 
Llpf)n a lordly dish ; frank hosp/tality 



Where simple art with bounteous natun 

vied, 
And cottage comfort shunned not seemly 

pride. 

Kind Hostess ! Handmaid also of th? 

feast, 
If thou be lovelier than the kindling East, 
Words by thy presence unrestrained may 

speak 
Of a perpetual dawn from brow and cheek 
Instinct with light whose sweetest promise 

lies. 
Never retiring, in thy large dark eyes, 
Dark but to every gentle feeling true, 
As if their lustre flowed from ether's pure^ 

blue. 
Let me not ask what tears may have been 

wept 
By those bright eyes, that weary vigils kept, 
Beside that hearth what sighs may have 

been heaved 
For wounds inflicted, nor what toil relieved 
By fortitude and patience, and the grace 
Of heaven in pity visiting the place. 
Not unadvisedly those secret spnngs 
I leave unsearched : enough that memory 

clings, 
Here as elsewhere, to notices that make 
Their own si'j;n'.ficance for hearts awake 
To rural incidents, whose genial powers 
Filled with delight three summer morning 

hours. 
More could my pen report of grave or 

gay 
That through our gypsy travel cheered the 

way ; 
But, bursting forth above the waves, the 

Sun 
Laughs at my pains, and seems to say, " Be 

done." 
Yet, Beaumont, thou wilt not, I trust, re- 
prove 
Tills himible offering made by Truth to 

Love, 
Nor chide the Muse that stooped to break 

a spell 
Which might have else been on me yet :- - 
Farewell. 



UI'ON PERUSING THE FOREGOING EPIS« 
TLE THIRTY YEARS AFTER ITS COM- 

rosrnoN. 
Soon did the Almighty Giver of all rest 
Take those dear young Ones to a fearles* 

nest : 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



449 



And in Deatli's arms has long reposed the 

Friend 
For whom this simple Register was penned. 
1'hanks to the moth that spared it for our 

eyes ; 
And Strangers even the slightest Scroll may 

prize, 
Moved by the touch of kindred sympathies. 
For — save the calm, repentance sheds o'er 

strife 
Raised by remembrances of misused life, 
The light from past endeavors purely vi^illed 
And by Heaven's favor happily fulfilled ; 
Save hope that we, yet bound to Earth, may 

share 
The joys of the Departed — what so fair 
As blameless pleasure, not without some 

ears, 
Reviewed through Love's transparent veil of 

years 



? * 



GOLD AND SILVER FISHES IN A 
VASE. 

The soaring lark is blest as proud 
When at heaven's gate she sings ; 

The roving bee proclaims aloud 
Her flight by vocal wings ; 

While Ye, in lasting durance pent, 
Your silent lives employ 



♦ LouGHRiGG Tarn, alluded to in the fore- 
going Epistle, resembles, though much smaller 
in Compass, the Lake Nemi, or Speculum 
Diante as it is often called, not only in its clear 
waters and circular form, and the beauty im- 
mediately surrounding it, but also as being 
overlooked by the eminence of Langdale Pikes 
as Lake Nemi is by that of Monte Calvo. 
Since this Epistle was written Loughrigg Tarn 
has lost much of its beanty by the felling of 
many natural clumps of wood, relics of the old 
forest, particularly upon the farm called " The 
Oaks," from the abundance of that tree winch 
grew there. 

It is to be regretted, upon public grounds, 
that Sir George Beanmont did not carry into 
effect his intention of constructing here a Sum- 
mer Retreat, in the style I have described ; as 
his taste would have set an example how build- 
ings, with all the accommodations modern 
society requires, might be introduced even into 
the most secluded parts of tins country without 
injuring their native character. The design 
was not abandoned from failure of inclination 
on his part, but in consequence of local untow- 
^rdness which need not be particularized. 



For something more than dull content. 
Though haply less than joy. 

Yet might your glassy prison seem 

A place where joy is known, 
Where golden flash and silver gleam 

Have meanings of their own ; 
Wliile, high and low, and all about, 

Your motions, glittering Elves ! 
Ye weave — no danger from without, 

And peace among yourselves. 

Type of a sunny human breast 

Is your transparent cell ; 
Where Fear is but a transient guest, 

No sullen Humors dwell ; 
Where, sensitive of every ray 

That smites this tiny sea, 
Your scaly panoplies repay 

The loan with usury. 

How beautiful ! — Yet none knows why 

This ever-graceful change, 
Renewed — renewed incessantly — 

Within your quiet range. 
Is it that ye with conscious skill 

For mutual pleasure glide ; 
And somet'mes, not without your will, 

Are dwarfed, or magnified ? 

Fays, Genii of gigantic size ! 

.4nd now, in twilight dim. 
Clustering like constellated eyes 

In wings of Cherubim, 
When the fierce orbs abate their glare ; — 

Whate'eryour forms express, 
Whate'er ye seem, whate'er ye are — 

All leads to gentleness. 

Cold (hough your nature be, 'tis pure ; 

Your birthright is a fence 
From all that haughtier kinds endure 

Through tyranny of sense 
Ah ! not alone by colors bright 

Are Ye to Heaven allied, 
When, like essential Forms of light, 

Ye mingle, or divide. 

For day-dreams soft as e'er beguiled 

Day-tlioughts while limbs repose ; 
For moonlight fascinations mild, 

Your gift, ere shutters close- 
Accept, mute Captives ! thanks and praiSCj 

And may this tribute prove 
That gentle admirations raise 

Delight resembling love. 

1829. 



4SO 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS- 



LIBERTY 

\SnnuEL TO THE ABOVE.) 

[addresseo to a friend; the gold 
AND Silver fishes having been re- 
moved TO A POOL in the PLEASURE 

ground of rydal mount.] 

* The liberty of a people consists in being 
governed by laws wliich they Iiave made fv)r 
themselves, under wiiatever form it be of 
government. The liberty of a private man, 
in being master of his own time and actions, 
as far as may consist with the laws of God 
and of his country. Of this latter v.'e are 
here to discourse."— Cowlf.v. 

'J'hose breathing Tokens of your kind re- 
gard, 
(Suspect not, Anna, that their fate is hard : 
iMot soon does aught to which mild fancies 

cHng, 
In lonely spots, become a slighted thing ;) 
Those silent Inmates now no longer siiare 
Nor do they need, our hospitable care, 
Removed in kindness from their glassy Cell 
To the fresh waters of a living Well — 
An ellin pool so sheltered that its rest 
No winds disturb ; the mirror of whose 

breast 
Is smooth as clear, save where with dimples 

small 
A fly may settle, or a blossom fall. 
— There swims, of blazing sun and beating 

shower 
Fearless (but how obscured!) the golden 

Power, 
That from his bauble prison used to cast 
Gleams by the ncliest jewel unsurpast : 
And near him, darkling like a sullen Gnome, 
The silver Tenant of the crystal dome ; 
Dissevered both from all the mysteries 
Of hue and altering shape that charmed all 

eyes. 
Alas ! they pined, they languished while 

they shone ; 
And, if not so, what matters beauty gone 
And admiration lost, by change of place 
That brings to the inward creature no dis- 
grace ? 
But if the change restore his birthright, 

then, 
Whate'er the difference, boundless is the 

gain. 
Who can divine what impulses from God 
Reach the caged lark, within a town abode, 



From his poor inch or two of daisied sod? 
yield him back his privilege !— No sea 
Swells like the bosom of a man set free ; 
A wilderness is rich with liberty. 
Roll on, ye spouting whales, who die ox 

keep 
Your independence in the fathomlcsss 

Deep ! 
Spread, tiny nautilus, the living sail j 
Dive, at thy choice, or brave the freshening 

gale ! 
If unreproved the ambitious eagle mount 
Sunward to seek the daylight in its fount. 
Bays, gulfs, and ocean's Indian width, shall 

be. 
Till the world perishes, a field for thee 1 

While musing here I sit in sh.aclow cool, 
And watch these mute Ccmpamons, in the 

pool, 
(Among reflected boughs of leafy trees) 
By glimpses caught — disporting at their 

ease. 
Enlivened, braced, by hardy luxuries, 
I ask what warrant fixed them (like a spell 
Of witchcraft fixed them) in the crystal cell ; 
To wheel with languid motion round and 

round. 
Beautiful, yet in mournful durance bound. 
Their peace, perhaps, our lightest footfall 

marred; 
On their quick sense cur sweetest music 

jarred ; 
And whitlier could they dart, if seized with 

fear ? 
No sheltering stone, no tangled root was 

near. 
When fire or taper ceased to cheer the room 
They wore away the night in starless gloom ; 
And, when the sun first dawned upon the 

streams. 
How faint their portion of his vital beams ! 
TIuis, and unable to complain, they fared, 
While not one joy of ours by them was 

shared. 

Is there a cherished bird (I venture now 
To snatch a sprig from Chaucer's reverend 

brow ) — 
Is there a brilliant fondling of the cage, 
Though sure of plaudits on his costly stage, 
Though fed with dainties from the snow- 
white hand 
Of a kind mistress, fairest of the land, 
But gladly would escape ; and, if need were, 
Scatter the colors from the plumes that bear 
The emancipated captive through blithe aix 



MTSCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



45 



Into strange woods, where he at large may 

live 
On best or worst which they and Nature 

give ? 
The beetle loves his unpretending track, 
The snail the house he carries on his back ; 
The far-l.-tched worm with pleasure would 

disown 
The bed we give him, though of softest 

down ; 
A noble instinct ; in all kinds the same, 
All ranks! What sovereign, worthy of the 

name. 
If doomed to breathe against his lawful will 
An element that flatters him— to kill. 
But would rejoice to barter outward show 
For the least boon that freedom can bestow .-' 

But most the Rard is true to inborn right, 
I.ark of the dawn, and Philomel of night, 
Exults in freedom, can with rapture vouch 
For the dear blessings of a lowly couch, 
A natural meal — days, months, from Nature's 

hand ; 
Time, place, and business, all at his com- 
mand ! — 
Who bends to happier duties, who more wise 
'J'hau the industrious Poet, taught to prize, 
Above all grandeur, a pure life uncrossed 
By cares in which simplicity is lost ? 
That life — the flowery path that winds bv 

stealth !— 
Which Horace needed for his spirit's health ; 
Sighed for, in heart and genius, overcome 
By noise and strife, and questions wearisome. 
And the vain splendors of Imperial Kome ? — 
Let easy mirth his social hours inspire, 
And fiction animate his sportive lyre. 
Attuned to verse that, crowning light Dis- 
tress 
With garlands, cheats her into happiness ; 
Give iiic the humblest note of those sad 

strains 
Drawn forth by pressure of his gilded chains, 
Asa chance-sunbeam from his memory fell 
Upon the Sabine farm he loved so well ; 
Or when tlie prattle of Pilandusia's spring 
Haunted his ear — he only listening — 
He proud to please, above all rivals, fit 
To win tiiG palm of gayety and wit ; 
He, doubt not, with involuntary dread, 
Shrinking from each new favor to be shed. 
By the world's Ruler, on his honored head I 

In a deep vision's intellectual scene, 
Such earnest longings and regrets as keen 
Depressed the melancholy Cowley, laid 
Under a fancied ycw-trec's luckless shade ; 



A doleful bower for penitential song. 
Where Man and Muse complained of mutual 

wrong ; 
While Cam's ideal current glided by, 
And antique towers nodded their forehead? 

high, 
Citadels dear to studious privacy. 
But Fortune, who lad long been used t« 

sport 
With this tried Servant of a thankless Courtj 
Relenting met his wishes ; and to you 
The remnant of his days at least was true • 
You. whom, though long deserted, he loved 

best ; 
You, Muses, books, fields, liberty, and rest! 

Far happier they who, fixing hope and 

aim 
On the humanities of peaceful fame, 
Enter betimes with more than martial fire 
The generous course, aspire, and still aspire: 
Upheld by warnings heeded not too late 
vStide the contradictions of their fate, 
And to one purpose cleave, their Being's 

god-like mate ! 

Thus, gifted Friend, but with the placid 

brow 
That woman ne'er should lorfeU, keep thy 

vow 
With modest scorn reject whate'er would 

blind 
The ethereal eyesight, cramp the winged 

mind! 
Then, with a blessing granted from above, 
To every act, word, thought, and look of 

love. 
Life's book for Thee may lie unclosed, till 

age 
Shall with a thankful tear bedrop its latest 

page.* 
1829! 

* There is now, alas ! no possibiluy of the 
anticipntion, with wliich tlie above Epistle con- 
cludes, beiiiK realized : nor were the verses ever 
seen by the Individual for whom they were in- 
tended. She accompanied her husband, the 
Rev. \Vm. Fietciier, to India, and died of ( hol- 
era, at the age of thirty-two or thirty-tliree 
years, on lier way from Slialaposp to Bombay, 
deeply latnented by all who knew h r. 

Her entluisiasm was ardent, her piety stead- 
fast ; and her great ta'ents would have enabled 
her to be eminently useful m the diflficult path 
of life to which she had been called- The 
opinion she entertained of her own peiform- 
ances, given to the world under lier ma, den 
name, Jewsbmy, was modest andhiimiile, and, 
indeed, far below their merits ; as is often Um 



45' 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



IV. 

POOR ROBIN. * 
Now when the primrose makes a splendid 

show, 
And hiies face the March-winds in full blow, 
And humbler growths as moved with one de- 
sire 
Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, 
Poor Robin is yet flowcrless ; but how gay 
With his red stallvs upon this sunny day i 
And, as his tuits of leaves he spreads, con- 
tent 
With a hard bed and scanty nourishment, 
Mixed with the green, some shine not lack- 
in:^ power 
To rival summer's brightest scarlet flower ; 
And flowers they well might seem to pass- 
ers-by 
If looked at only with a careless eye; 
Flowjrs— or a richer produce (did it suit 
The season) sprinklings of ripe strawberry 

fruit. 
Put while a thousand pleasures come un- 
sought, 
Why fix upon his wealth or want a thought? 
1^. tlie string touched in prelude to a lay 
Of pretty fancies that would round him play 
Wii:;n all the world acknowledged elfin sway ? 
Or does it svut our humor to commend 
Poor Robin as a sure and crafty friend, 
Wiiose practice teaches, spite of names to 

show 
Bright colors whether they deceive or no ? — 
Nay, we would simply praise the free good- 
will [hill 
Wnth which, though slighted, he, on naked 
Or in warm valley, seeks his part to fill ; 
Cli(?erful alike if bare of flowers as now, 
Or when his tiny gems shall deck his brow ; 
Yet more, we wish that men by men despised, 
And such as lift their foreheads overprized, 
Sho'ild sometimes think, where'er they 

chance to spy 
This child of Nature's own humilit}-, 
What recompense is kept in store or left 
For all that seem neglected or bereft ; 
With what nice care equivalents are given, 
How just. Iinv, i?ountiful, the hand of Heaven. 
MaiJt, IJ40. 

case with those who are making trial of their 
powers, with a liope to discover what they are 
best fitted for. In one quality, viz., quickness 
in the motions of her mind, she had, witliin the 
ranee of the Autiio. 's acquaintance, no equal. 

* The small wild Geranium known by that 
name- 



V. 

THE GLEANER. 

(suggested by a picture.) 

That happy gleam of vernal eyes, 
Those locks from summer's golden skies, 

That o'er thy brow are shed ; 
That cheek — a kindling of the morn. 
That lip — a rose-bud from the thorn, 

I saw ; and Fancy sped 
To scenes Arcadian, whispering, thiougli 

soft air, 
Of bliss that grows without a care, 
And happiness that never flies — 
(How can it where love never dies ?) 
Whispering of promise, where no blight 
Can reach tiic innocent delight ; 
There pity, to the mind conveyed 
In pleasure, is the darkest shade 
That Time, unwrinkled grandsire, flings 
From his smoothly gliding wings. 

What mortal form, what earthly face 
Inspired the pencil, lines to trace, 
And mingled colors, that should breed 
Such rapture, nor want power to feed ; 
For had tiiy charge been idle flowers, 
Fair Damsel ! o'er my captive mind, 
To trutir and sober reason blind, 
'Mid that soft air, those long-lost bowers, 
The sweet illusion might have hung, fol 
hours. 

Thanks to this tell-tale sheaf of corn, 
That touchingly bespeaks thee born 
Life's daily tasks with them to sliare; 
W'lio, whether from tlieir lowly bed 
They rise, or rest the weary head. 
Ponder the blessing they entreat 
From Heaven, and/r^V what they repeat, 
While they give utterance to the prayer 
That asks for daily bread. 

1S2S. 



TO A REDBREAST— (IN SICKNESS 

Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay, 

And at my casement sing. 
Though it sliould prove a farewell lay 

And this our parting spring. 
Though I, alas ! may ne'er enjoy 

The promise in thy song ; 
A charm, i/iat thought can not destroy 

Doth to thy strain belong. 

Methinks that in my dying hour 
Thy song would still be dear. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



453 



And with a mere tlian earthly power 
My passing Spirit cheer. 

Then, little Bird, this boon confer, 
Come, and my requiem sing, 

Nor fail to be the harbinger 
Of everlasting Spring. 

S. H. 



VII. 

FLOATING ISLAND. 
These lines are by the Autlior of the Address 
to the Wind, &c., published heretofore along 
with niy Poems. The above to a Redbreast are 
by a deceased female Relative. 
Harmonious Powers with Nature work 
On sky, earth, river, lake, and sea ; 
Sunshine and cloud, whirlwind and breeze, 
All in one duteous task agree. 

Once did I see a slip of earth 
(By throbbing waves long undermined; 
Loosed from its hold ; how, no one knew, 
But all might see it float, obedient to the 

wind ; 
Might see it, from the mossy shore 
Dissevered, float upon the Lake, 
Float with its crest of trees adorned 
On which the warbling birds their pastime 

take. 
Food, shelter, safety, there they find ■ 
There berries ripen, flowerets bloom ; 
There insects live their lives, and die ; 
A peopled world it is ; in size a tiny room. 

And thus through many seasons' sj»ace 
This little Island may survive ; 
liut Nature, though we mark her not, 
Will take away, may cease to give. 

Perchance when you are wandering forth 
Upon some vacant sunny day, 
Without an object, hope, or fear, 
Thither your eyes may turn — the Isle is 

passed away ; 
I?uried beneath the glittering Lake, 
Its place no longer to be found ; 
Yet the lost fragments shall remain 
To fertilize some other ground. 

D. vv. 

VIII. 

" Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone 
Wr the old moone in hir ai me." 

Ballad of Sir Patrick Spend', 
Percy^s Ki'li(/Jies. 
Once I could liail (howe'er serene the sky) 
The Moon re-entering her monthly round, 



No faculty yet given me to espy 
The dusky Shape within her armsimbound, 
That thin memento of effulgence lost 
Which some have named her Predecessor's 
ghost. 

Young, like the Crescent that above me 

shone. 
Naught I perceived within it dull or dim ; 
All that appeared was suitable to one 
Whose fancy had a thousand fields to skim ; 
To expectations spreading with wild growth. 
And hope that kept with me her plighted 

troth. 

I saw (ambition quickening at the view) 
A silver boat launched on a boundless flood; 
A pearly crest, like Dian's when it threw 
Its brightest splendor round a leafy wood ; 
But not a hint from under-groimd, no sign 
Fit for the glimmering brow of Proserpine. 

Or was it Dian's self that seemod to move 
Before me.'' nothing blemished the fair 

sight ; 
On her I looked whom jocund Fairies love, 
Cynthia, who puts the liltle stars to flight. 
And by that thinning magnifies the great, 
For exultation of her sovereign state. 

And when I learned to mark the spectral 

• Shape 
As each new Moon obeyed Ihe call of Time, 
If gloom fell on me, swift was my escape ; 
.'-^uch liappy privilege hath life's gay Prime, 
I'o see or not to see, as best may i)lease 
A buoyant Spirit, and a heart at ease. 

Now, dazzling Stranger ! when thou meet'st 

my glance. 
Thy dark Associate ever I discern ; 
Emblem of thoughts loo eager to advance 
While I salute my joys, llujughts sad or 

stern ; 
Shades of past bliss, or phantoms that, to 

gain 
Their fill of promised lustre, wait in vain. 

So changes mortal Life with fleeting years > 
A mournful change, should Reason fail to 

bring 
The timely insight that can temper fears, 
And from vicissitude remove its sting ; 
Wiiile Faith aspires to seats in that domain 
Wliere joys are perfect— neither wax nor 

wane. 
1S26. 



454 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



TO THE LADY FLEMING, 

ON SEEING THE FOUNDATION I'REPAR- 
ING lOK THE ERECTION OF RVDAL 
CHANEL, WESTMORELAND. 

I 

FiLEST is this Isle — our native Land ; 
Where battlement and moated gate 
Are objects only for the liand 
Of hoary Time to decorate ; 
Where shady hamlet, town that breathes 
Its busy smoke in social wreaths, 
No rampart's stern defence require, 
Naugiit but the heaven-directed spire. 
And steeple tower (witii pealing bells 
Far heard) — our only citadels. 



Lady ! from a noble line 

01 chieftains sprung, who stoutly bore 
Tiie spear, yet gave to works divine 

A bounteous help in days of yore, 
(As records mouldering in the D.-ll 
Of Nightshade * haply yet may tell ;) 
Thee kindred aspirations moved 
To build, witliin a vale beloved, 
For Him upon whose high behests 
All peace depends, all safety rests. 

III. 
How fondly will the woods embrace 
This daughter of thy pious care, 
Lifting her front with modest grace 
To make a fair recess more fair ; 
And to exalt the passing hour; 
Or sootlie it with a healing power 
Drawn from the Sacrifice 'fulfilled 
Before this rugged soil was tilled, 
Or human habitation r(«e 
To interrupt the dejp repose! 



Well may the villagers rejoice ! 

Nor lieat, nor cold, nor weary ways. 

Will be a hindrance to the voice 

Tliat would unite in prayer and i)raise ; 

More duly shall wild wandering Youth 

Receive the curb of sacred truth. 

Shall tottering Age, bent earthward, hear 

The Promise, witli uplifted ear ; 

And all shall welcome the new ray 

Imparted to their sabbath-day. 



• Bekangs Ghyll — or the flail of Nightshade 
«-in winch stands St. Mary's Abbey iu Low 
Fuiiiess. 



Nor deem the Poet's hope mi<;placed. 
His fancy cheated — that can see 
A shade upon the future cast, 
Of time's pathetic sanctity ; 
Can hear the monitory cl jck 
Sound o'er the lake witli i^entle shock 
At evening, when the ground beneath 
Is ruffled o'er with cells of death ; 
Where happy generations lie, 
Here tutored for eternity. 

VI. 

Lives there a man whose sole delights 
Are trivial pomp and city noise, 
Hardening a heart that loathes or slights 
What every natural heart enjoys ? 
Who never caught a noon-tide dream 
From murmur of a running stream ; 
Could strip, for aught the prospect yields 
To him, their verdure from the fields ; 
And take the radiance from the clouds 
In which the sun his setting shrouds. 



A soul so pitiably forlorn. 
If such do on this earth abide, 
May season apathy with scorn, 
May turn indifference to pride ; 
And still be not unblest — compared 
With him who grovels, self-debarred 
From all that lies within the scope 
Of holy faith and christian hope ; 
Or, shipwreck'd, kindles on the coast 
I'alse fires, that others may be lost. 

VIII, 

Alas! that such perverted zeal 

Should spread on Britain's favoreJ ground 

That public order, private weal. 

Should e'er have felt or feared a wound 

From champions of the desperate law 

Which from their own blind liearis thej 

draw ; 
Who tempt their reason to deny 
Clod, whom their passions dare iefy, 
.And boast that they alone are i.'ee 
Wiio reach this dire extremity! 



But turn we from these " bold bad '' men 
The way, mild Lady ! that hath led 
Down to their " dark opprobrious den,*' 
Is all too rough for Thee to tread. 
Softly as morning vapors glide 
Down Rydal-cove from Fairfield's side, 
Should move the tenor of lus song 



MIS r EL LA .VEO US POEMS 



455 



Who means to charity no wrong ; 
Whose offering gladly would accord 
VViUi this day's work, in thought and word. 
X. 

Heaven prosper it ! may peace, and love, 
And hope, and consolation, fall, 
'riirough its meek influence, from above, 
And penetrate the hearts of all ; 
All wlio. around the Iiallowed Fane, 
Shall sojourn m this fair domain ; 
Cirateful to Thee, while service pure, 
And ancient ordinance, shall endure, 
For opportunity bestowed 
To kneel together, and adore their God ! 
1823. 



ON THE SAME OCCASION. 
Oh ! gather whencesoc'cr ye safely may 
The help which slackenhig' Piety requires ; 
Nor deem that he perforce must go astray 
Wlio treads upon the footmarks of his sires. 
Our cluuches, invariably perhaps, stand east 
and west, but why is by few Y&\io\\% exactly 
known ; nor, tliat the degree of deviation 
from due east often noticeable in the ancient 
<mes was determined, in eacii particular case, 
by the j oint in the horizon, at which the sun 
rose upon the day oi tiie saint to whom tiie 
church was dedicated. These observances 
of our ancestors, and tlie causes of them, are 
the subiect of the foi lowing stanzas. 

When in the antique age of bow and spear 
And feudal rapine clothed with iron mail, 
Came ministers of peace, intent to rear 
The Mother Church in yon sequestered 
vale; 

Then, to her Patron Saint a previous rite 
Resounded with deep swell and solemn 

close. 
Through unremitting vigils of the night, 
Till from his couch the wished-for Sun up- 
rose. 

He rose, and straight — as by divine com- 
mand. 

They, who had waited for that sign to trace 

Their work's foundation, gave with careful 
hand 

To the high altar its determined place ; 

Mindful of Him who in the Orient born 
There lived, and on the cross his life re- 
signed. 
And who, from out the regions of the morn, 
Issuing in pomp, shall come to judge man- 
kind 



So taught (heir creed ; — nor failed the east- 
ern sky, 

'Mid these more awful feelings, to infuse 

The sweet and natural hopes that shall not 
die, 

Long as the sun his gladsome course re* 
news. 

For us hath such prelusive vigil ceased ; 
Yet still we plant, like men of elder days 
Our christian altar faithful to the east. 
Whence the tall window drinks the morning 
rays ; 

That obvious emblem giving to the eye 
Of meek devotion, which erewhile it gave, 
Tliat symbol of the day-spring from on high, 
Triumphant o'er the darkness of the grave. 



THE HORN OF EGRFMONT 
CASTLE. 

Ere the Brothers through the gateway 
Issued forth with old and young. 
To the Horn Sir Eustace pointed 
Which for ages there had iuing. 
I Horn it was which none could sound, 
No one upon living ground, 
Save He who came as rightful Heir 
To Egremont's Domains and Castle fair 

Heirs from times of earliest record 
Had the House of Lucie born. 
Who of right had held the Lordship 
Claimed by proof upon the Horn : 
Each at the appointed hour 
Tried the Horn, — it owned his power ; 
He was acknowledged : and the blast 
Which good Sir Eustace sounded was the 
last. 

With his lance Sir Eustace pointed 

And to Hubert thus said lie, 

" What I speak this Horn shall witness 

For thy better memory. 

Hear, then, and neglect me not ! 

At this time, and on this spot, 

The words are uttered from my h^art, 

As my last earnest prayer ere we depart. 

On good service we are going 
Life to risk by sea and land. 
In which course if Christ our Saviour 
Do mv sinful soul demand, 



45^ 



MrSCF TLAh 'FOUS POEMS. 



Hither come thou back straightway, 
Hubert, it alive that day ; 
Return, and sound the Horn, that we 
May have a living House still left in thee ! " 

" Fear not," quickly answered Hubert ; 

" As I am thy Father's son, 

What thou askest, noble Brother. 

With God's favor shall be done.'' 

So were both right well content : 

Forth they from the Castle went. 

And at the head of their Array 

To Palestine the Brothers took their way. 

Side by side th-,?y fought (the Lucies 

Were a line for valor famed) 

And where'er their strokes alighted 

'Jhere the Saracens were tamed. 

Whence, then, could it come — the thought — 

By what evil spirit brought ? 

O'l ! can a brave Man wish tc take 

his Brothel's life, for Lands' and Castle's 



*' Sir ! '' the Ruffians said to Hubert, 
" Deep he lies in Jordan flood.'' 
Stricken by this ill-assurance, 
Pale and trembling Hubert stood. 
" Take your earnings.'' — Oh ! that I 
Could have seen my Brother die ! 
It was a pang that vexed him then : 
And oft returned, again, and yet again. 

Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace ! 

Nor of him were tidings heard. 

Wherefore, bold as day, the Murderer 

Back again to England steered. 

To his Castle Hubert sped ; 

Nothing has he now to dread. 

But silent and by stealth he came, 

And at an hour which nobody could name. 

None could tell if it were night-time, 

Night or day, at even or morn ; 

No one's eye had seen him enter, 

No one's ear had heard the Horn. 

But bold Hubert lives in glee : 

Months and years went smilingly ; 

With plenty was his table spread ; 

And bright the Lady is who shares his bed. 

IJkcwise he had sons and daughters ; 

And, as good men do, he sate 

At his board by these surrounded 

Flourishing in fair estate. 

And while thus in open day 

Once he sate, as old book? say, 

A lilast was uttered from ihe Horn, 

Where by the Castle-gate it hung luilorn. 



'Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace I 
He is come to claim his right : 
Ancient castle, woods, and mountains 
Hear the challenge with delight. 
Hubert ! though the blast be blown 
He is helpless and alone : 
Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word! 
And there he may be lodged, and thou b« 
Lord. 

Speak ! — astounded Hubert cannot ; 
And, if power to speak he had. 
All are daunted, all the household 
Smitten to the heart, and aad. 
'Tis Sir Eustace ; if it be 
Living man, it must be he ! 
Thus Hubert thought in his dismay, 
And by a postern-gate he slunk away. 

Long and long was he unheard of: 

To his Brother then he came, 

Made confession, asked forgiveness, 

Asked it by a brother's name, 

And by all the saints in heaven ; 

And of Eustace was forgiven : 

Then in a convent went to hide 

His melancholy head, and there he died. 

But Sir Eustace, whom good angels 
Had preserved from murderers' liands, 
And from Pagan cliains had rescued. 
Lived with honor on his lands. 
Sons he had, saw sons of theirs : 
And through ages, h irs of heirs, 
A long posterity renowned. 
Sounded the Horn which they alone could 
sound. 
iSo6. 



XII. 
GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL. 

A TRUE STORY. 

Oh ! what's the matter ? what's the matter ? 
What is't that ails young Harry Gill ! 
That evermore his teeth they chatter, 
Chatter, chatter, chatter still ! 
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, 
Good duffle gray, and flannel fine; 
He has a blanket on his back. 
And coats enough to smother nine. 

In March, December, and in July, 
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill ; 
Tiie neigh')(M-s tell, and tell you tn'ly, 
His teeth they chatter, chatter stUl. 



M ISC EL LANEO US POEMS 



457 



At night, at morning, and at noon, 
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill ; 
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, 
His teeth they chatter, chatter still 1 

Voung Harry was a lusty drover, 
And who so stout of limb as he ? 
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover ; 
His voice was like th'i voice of three. 
Old Goody Blake was old and poor ; 
111 fed she was, and thinly clad ; 
And any man who passed her door 
Might see how poor a hut she had 

All day she spun in her poor dwelling • 
And then her three hours' work at night, 
Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling, 
It would not pay for candle-light. 
Remote from sheltered village green, 
On a hill's northern side she dwelt, 
Wiiere from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean, 
And hoary dews are slow to melt. 

By the same fire to boil their pottage. 
Two poor old Dames as I have known, 
Will often live in one small cottage •, 
But she, poor Woman ! housed alone. 
Twas well enough when summer came, 
The long, warm, liglitsoms summer-day, 
Then at her door the caiify Dame 
Would sit,^ as any linnet, gay. 

But when the ice our streams did fetter. 
Oh then how her old bones would shake ! 
You would have said, if you had met her, 
'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. 
Her evenings then were dull and dead : 
Sad case it was, as you may think, 
For very cold to go to bed ; 
And then for told not sleep a wink- 

O joy for her! whene'er in winter 
The winds at night iiad made a rout 
And scattered many a lusty splinter 
And many a rotten bougii about. 
Yet never had she, well or sick, 
As every man who knew her says, 
A pile beforehand, turf or stick, 
Enough to warm her lor three days. 

Now, when the frost was past enduring, 
And made her poor old bones to ache, 
Could any thing be more alluring 
Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? 
And, now and then, it must be said, 
When her old bones were cold and chill, 
She left lier fire, or left her bed. 
To seen the hedge of Harry Gill. 



Now Harry he had long suspected 
This trespass of old Goody Blake ; 
And vowed that she should be detected 
That he on her would vengeance take. 
And oft from his warm fire he'd go, 
And to tin fields his road would take ; 
And there, at night, in trost and snoWt 
lie watched to seize old Goody Blake 

And once, behind a rick of barley, 
Thus looking out did Harry stand . 
The moon was full and shining clearly, 
And crisp with frost the stubble land, 
— He hears a noise — he's all awake — 
Again ? — on tip-toe down the hill 
He softly creeps— 'tis Goody Blake j 
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill ! 

Right glad was he when he beheld her: 
Stick after stick did Goody pull ; 
He stood behind a bush of elder, 
Till she had filled her apron full. 
When with her load she turned about, 
The by-way back again to take, 
He started forward, with a sliout, 
And sprang upon jDoor Goody Blake. 

And fiercely by the arm he took her, 
And by the arm he held her fast, 
And fiercely by the arm he shook her, 
And cried, " I've caught you then at last! 
Then Goody, who had nothing said. 
Her bundle from her lap let fall ; 
And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed 
To God that is the judge of all 

She praved, her withered hand uprearinj 
While Harry held her by the arm — 
" God ! who art never uut of hearing, 
O may he never more be warm I " 
The cold, cold moon above her head, 
Thus on her knees did Goody pray , 
Young Hairy heard what she had said 
And icy cold he turned away. 

He went complaining all the morrow 
Thafhe was cold and very chill 
His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow^ 
Alas I that day for Harry Gill ! 
That day he wore a riding-coat, 
But not a whit the warmer he ; 
Another was on Thursday brought. 
And ere the Sabbath he had three. 

'Twas all in vain, a useless matter. 
And blankets were about him pinned; 
Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter. 
Like a loose casement in the wind. 



45^ 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And Harry's flesh it fell away; 
And all who see him say, 'tis plain 
That, live as long as live he may, 
He never will be warm again. 

No word to any man he utters, 
A -bed or up, to young or old ; 
But ever to himself he mutters, 
" Poor Harry Gill is very cold." 
A-bed or up, by night or day, 
His teeth they chatter, chatter still, 
Now think, ye farmers all, 1 i>ray, 
Of Goodv Blake and and llarry Gill I 



XIII. 

PRELUI3E. 

PREFIXEP TO THE VOLUME ENTITLED 
" POEMS CHin-I.V OF EARLY AND LATE 
YEARS.'' 

In desultory walk through orchard grounds 
Or some deep chestnut grove, ott have I 

paused 
The while a Thrush, urged rather than re- 
strained 
By gusts of vernal storm, attuned his song 
To his own geiual instincts ; and was heard 
(Though not without some plaintive tones 

between) 
To utter, above showers of blossom swept 
Fro'.n tossing boughs, the promise of a 

calm. 
Which the unsheltered traveller might re- 
ceive 
With thankful spirit. The descent, and 

the wind 
That seemed to ]May with it in love or scorn. 
Encouraged and endeared the strain of 

words 
That haply flowed from me, by fits of silence 
linpelled to livelier pace. But now, my 

Book! 
Charged with those lays, and others of like 

mood, 
i)\ loftier pitch if higher rose the theme, 
Go, single — yet aspiring to be joined 
With thy Forerunners that through many a 

year 
HavL' faithfully prepared each other's way — 
Go fortli upon a mission best fulfilled 
When and wherever, in this changeful 

world. 
Power hatli been given to please for higher 

ends 
Than pleasure only ; gladdening to prepare 
For wiiolebouic sa».luess, troubling to refine, 



Calming to raise ; and, by a sapient Art 
Diffused through all the mysteries of wvt 

Being, 
Softening the toils and pains that have not 

ceased 
To cast their shadows on our mother Earth 
Since the primeval doom. Such is the 

grace 
Which, though unused for, fails not to de- 

scend 
With heavenly inspiration ; such the aim 
That Reason dictates ; and, as even the 

wish 
Has virtue in it, why should hope to me 
Be wanting that sometimes, where fancied 

ills 
Harass the mind and strip from off the 

bowers 
Of private life their natural pleasantness, 
A Voice — devoted to the love whose seeds 
Are sown in every human breast, to beauty 
Lodged within compass of the humblest 

sight. 
To cheerful intercourse with wood and field, 
And sympathy with man's substantial 

griefs — 
Will not be heard in vain. And in those 

days 
When unforeseen distress spreads far and 

wide 
Among a People mournfully cast down. 
Or into anger roused by venal words 
In recklessness flung out to overturn 
The judgment, and divert the general heart 
From mutual good — some strain of thine, 

my Book ! 
Caught at propitious intervals, may win 
Listeners who not unwillingly aJmit 
Kindly emotion tending to console 
And reconcile; and both with young and 

old 
Exalt the sense of thoughtful gratitude 
h\jr benefits that still survive, by faith 
In progress, under laws divine, maintained. 
Rydal Mount, March 26, 1842. 



XIV 

TO A CHILD 

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM. 

Small service is true service while it lasts. 
Of humblest Friends, bright Creature ! scorn 

not one ; 
The Daisy, by the shadow that it casts, 
I'rotects the lingering dew-drop from the 

Sun. 
iSj4. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



459 



t: 



XV. 

LINES 

WRITTEN TN THE ALBUM •T THE COUNT- 
KSSOK LON6UALE, NOV 5, 1834. 

Lady ! a Pen (perhaps with thy rec^ard, 
Among the Favored, favored not tlie least) 
Left, mid tiie Records of this Book in- 
scribed, 
Deliberate traces, registers of thought 
And feeling suited to ihe place and tkne 
'I'hat gave them birth : — months passed, 

and still this hand, 
That had not been too timid to imprint 
Words which the virtues of thy Lord in- 
spired, 
Was yet not bold enough to write of Thee. 
And why that scrupulous reserve? In 

sooth 
The blameless cause lay in the Theme it- 
self. 
Flowers are there many that delight to 

strive 
With the sharp wind, and seem to court the 

shower, 
Yet are by nature careless of the sun 
Whether he slune on them or not; and 

some, 
Where'er he moves along the unci mded 

sky, 
Turn a broad front full on his fl.iLiering 

beams • 
Others do rather from their notice shrink, 
Lovmg tl\e dewy shade, — a humble band, 
Modcht and sweet, a progeny of earth, 
Congenial with, thy mind and character, 
Highborn Augusta! 

Witness Towers, and Groves ! 
And '^hou. wild Stream, that giv'st the 

honored name 
Of Lowtiier to this ancient Line, bear wit- 
ness 
From thy most secret haunts ; and ye Par- 
terres, 
Which She is pleased and proud to call her 

own. 
Witness how oft upon my noble Friend 
Afute offerings, tribute from an inward 

sense 
Of admiration and respectful love, 
Have wait3d — till the affections could no 

more 
£ndure that silence, and broke out m song, 
Snatches of music taken up and dropt 
Like those self-soIacing, those unde«-, notes 



Trilled by the redbreast, when autumnal 

leaves 
Are thin upon the bough. Mine, only 

mine, 
The pleasure was, and no one heard the 

praise. 
Checked, in the moment of its issue, 

checked 
And reprehended, by a fanciv^j blush 
From the pure qualities tiiat called it forth. 

Thus Virtue lives debarred from Virtie's 

meed ; 
Thus, Lady, is retiredness a veil 
That, while it only spreads a softening 

charm 
O'er features looked at by discerning eyes. 
Hides half their beauty from the common 

gaze; 
And thus, even on the exposed and breezy 

hill 
Of lofty station, female goodness walks, 
When side by side with lunar gentleness, 
As in a cloister. Yet the grateful Poor 
(Such the immunities of low estate, 
Plain Nature's enviable privilege. 
Her sacred recompense for many wants) 
Open their hearts before Tliee, pouring out 
All that they think and feel, with tears of 

joy, 
And benedictions not unheard in heaven : 
And friend m the ear of friend, where 

spcccli IS free 
To follow truth, is eloquent as they. 

Then let the Book receive in these prompt 
lines 
A just memorial ; and thine eyes consent 
To read that they who mark thy course be- 
hold 
A life declining with the golden light 
Of summer, in the season of sere leaves ; 
See cheerfulness undamped by stealing 

Time ; 
See studied kindness flow with easy stream, 
Illustrated with inborn courtesy ; 
And an habitual disregard of self 
Balanced by vigilance for others' weal. 

And shall the Verse not tell of lighter 

gifts 
With these ennobling attributes conjoined 
And blended, in peculiar harmony, 
By Youth's surviving spirit ^ What agile 

grace ! 
A nymph-like lil)erty, in nym]ih-like form, 
Beheld with wonder , whether floor or pa^b 



'4Sb 



M ISC ELL A NEO US POEMt 



Thou tread ; or sweep — borne on the man- 

a2;ed steed — 
Fleet as the shadows, over down or field, 
Driven by strong winds at play among the 

clouds. 

Yet one word more — one farewell word — 

a wish 
Which came, but it has passed into a 

prayer — 
That, as thy sun in brightness is declining, 
So — at an hour yet distant tor tJicir sakes 
Whose tender love, here faltering on the 

way 
Of a diviner love, will be forgiven — 
So may it set in peace, to rise again 
For everlasting glory won by faith. 



XVI 

GRACE DARLING. 

Among the dwellers in the silent fields 
The natural heart is touched, and public 

way 
And crowded street resound with ballad 

strains. 
Inspired by one whose very name bespeaks 
Favor divine, exalting luiman love, 
Whom, since her birth on bleak Northum- 

bria's coast, 
Known unto few but prized as far as 

known, 
A single Act endears to high and low 
Through the whole land — to Manhood, 

moved in spite 
Of the world's freezing cares — to generous 

Youth — 
To Infancy, that lisps her praise — to Age 
Whose eye reflects it, glistening through a 

tear 
Of tremulous admiration. Such true fame 
Awaits her 7i07v ; but, verily, good deeds 
Do no imperisliable record find 
Save in the rolls of heaven, where hers may 

live 
A theme for angels, when they celebrate 
Tne hlgh-souled virtues which forgetful 

earth 
Has witness'd. Oh ! that winds and waves 

could speak 
Of things which their united power called 

forth 
From the pure dej^ths of her humanity ! 
A Maiden gentle, yet, at duty's call, 
Firm and untiinching, as the Lighthouse 

reared 



On the Island-rock, her lonely dwelling 

])lace ; 
Or like the invincible Rock itself tha* 

braves. 
Age after age, the hostile elements, 
As when it guarded holy Cuthbert's cell 



All night the storm had raged, nor ceased. 

nor paused, 
When, as day broke, the Maid, through 

misty air. 
Espies far off a Wreck, amid the surf. 
Beating on one of those disastrous isles — 
Half of a Vessel, half — no more ; the rest 
Had vanished, swallowed up with all that 

there 
Had for the common safety striven in vain, 
Or thither thronged for refuge. With 

quick glance 
Daughter and Sire through optic-glass dis- 
cern, 
Clinging about the remnant of this Ship, 
Creatures — how precious in the Maiden's 

sight ! 
For whom, belike, the old Man grieves still 

more 
Than for their fellow-sufYerers enrv 'fed 
Where every parting agony is hushed, 
And hope and fear mix not in further 

strife. 
"But courage. Father! let us out to sea — 
A few may yet be saved." The Dapghter's 

words, 
Her earnest tone, and look beaming with 

faith, 
Dispel the Father's doubts . nor do they 

lack 
The noble-minded Mother's helping hand 
To Luincli the boat ; and with her blessing 

cheered. 
And inwardly sustained by silent praver 
Together they put forth, Father and Clv.ld! 
Each grasps an oar, and struggling on they 

go— 
Rivals in effort; and, alike intent 
Here to elude and there surmount, they 

watch 
The billows lengthening, mutually crossed 
And shattered, and re gathering then 

might ; 
As if the tumult, by the Almighty's will 
Were, in the conscious sea, roused and pro- 
longed, 
That woman's fortitude — so tried, so 

proved — 
May brighten more and more ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



461 



True to the marlc, 
They stem the current of that perilous 

gorge, 
Their arms still strengthening with the 

strengthening heart, 
Though danger, as the Wreck is near'd, be- 
comes 
More imminent. Not unseen do they ap- 
proach : 
And rapture, with varieties of fear 
Incessantly conflicting, thrills the frames 
Ot those who. in that dauntless energy. 
Foretaste deliverance ; but the least per- 
turbed 
Can scarcely trust his eyes, when he per- 
ceives bring 
That of the pair — tossed on the waves to 
Hope to the hopeless, to the dying, hte — 
One IS a Woman, a poor earthly sister, 
Or, be the Visitant other than she seems, 
A guardian Spirit sent tiom pitying Heaven, 
in woman's shape. But why prolong the 

tale, 
Casting weak words amid a host of 

thoughts 
Armed to repel them ? Every hazard 

faced 
And difificulty mastered, with fsolve 
That no one breatiung should be left to 

perish, 
This last remamder of the crew are all 
Placed in the liUle boat, then o'er the deep 
Are safely borne, landed upon the beach, 
And, m fu1filnT:^nt ot God's mercv, lodged 
Within the sheltering Lighthouse. — Shout, 

ye Waves ! 
Send forth a song of triumoh Waves and 

Winds, 
Exult in this deliverance wrought th.rouTh 

faith 
In Him whose Piovidence your rage hath 

served ! 
Ye screaming Sea-mews, in the concert 

join 1 
And would that some immortal Voice — a 

Voice 
Fitly attuned to all that gratitude 
Breathes out from floor or couch, through 

pallid lips 
Of the survivors — to the clouds might 

bear — 
P.L mled with praise of that parental love, 
Beneath whose watchful eye the Maiden 

grew 
Pious and pure, modest and yet so brave, 
Though young so wise, though meek so 
resolute— 



Mic^ht carry to the clouds and to the stars, 
Yea, to celestial Choirs, Grace Darling's 
name 1 
1S42. 



XVII, 

THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 

PART I. 

Enough of rose-bud lips, and eyes 

Like harebells lathed in dew, 
Of cheek that with carnation vies 

And veins of violet hue ; 
Earth wants not beauty that may scorn 

A likening to frail flowers ; 
Yea, to the stars, if they were born 

For seasons and tor hours 



;ates, with gold un 



Through Moscow's 
barred. 

Stepped One at dead of night. 
Whom such high beauty could not guard 

From meditated blight ; 
By stealth she passed, and fled as fast 

As doth the hunted fawn, 
Nor stopped, till in the dappling east 

Appeared unwelcome dawn. 

Seven days she lurked in brake and field. 

Seven nights her course renewed. 
Sustained by what her scrip might yield, 

Or berries of the wood ; 
At length, in darkness travelling on. 

When lowly doors were shut. 
The haven of her hope she won, 

Her Foster-mother's hut. 

" To put your love to dangerous proof 

I come," said she, " from far ; 
For I have left my Father's roof. 

In terror of the Czar." 
No answer did the Matron give, 

No second look she cast, 
Bi.;t hung upon the Fugitive, 

Embracing and embraced. 

She led th.e Lady to a scat 

Beside the glimmering fire, 
Bathed duteously her wayworn feet. 

Prevented each desire • — 
The cricket chirped, the house-dog doted, 

And on that simple bed, 
Where she in childhood had reposed, 

Now rests her weary head. 



4b 2 



MISCELI.A\'EOrS POEMS. 



When she, wliose couch had been the sod, 

Whose curtain, ]Mne or thorn, 
Hath breathed a si'^h of thanks to God, 

Who comforts tlie forlorn ; 
Wliile over licr the Matron bent 

Sleep sealed her eyes, and stole 
Feeling from limbs with travel spent, 

And trouble from the soul 

Refreshed, the Wanderer rose at morn, 

And soon again was dight 
111 those unworthy vestments worn 

Through long and perilous fligiit ; 
An 1 " O beloved Nurse,'' she said, 

" My thanks with silent tears 
Have unto Heaven and You been paid ; 

Now listen to my fears ! 

" Have you forgot " — and hers she smiled — 

'• The babbling flatteries 
You lavished on me when a child 

Disporting round your knees ^ 
I was your lambkin, and your bird, 

Your star, your gem, your flower ; 
Lij,ht words, that were more lightly heard 

In many a cloudless hour ! 

•" The blossom you so fondly p: ai'sed 

Is come to bitter fruit ; 
A mighty One upon me gazed , 

I spurned his lawless suit, 
And must be hidden from his wrath; 

You, Foster-father dear, 
Will guide me In my forward path , 

I may not tairy here ! 

" 1 cannot bring to utter woe 

^'our proved fidelity." — 
'• Dear Child, sweet Mistress, say not so ! 

For you we both would die " 
" Nay, nay, I come with semb'anc:' feigned 

And cheek embrowned by art , 
Yet, b.^ing inwardly unstained, 

With courage will depart." 

" But whither would you, could you, flee ? 

A poor Man's counsel take ; 
The holy Virgin gives to me 

A thought for your dear sake ; 
Rest, shielded by our Lady's grace, 

And soon shall you be led 
Forth to safe abiding-place, 

Where never foot doth tread." 

PART II. 

The dwelling of this faitl-,ful pair 

In a straggling village stood. 
For One who breathed unquiet air 

A dangerous neighborhood ; 



But wide around lay forest ground 
W^ith thickets rough and blind ; 

And pine-trees made a heavy shade 
Impervious to the wind. 

And there, sequestered from the sight. 

Was spread a treacherous swamp. 
On which the noonday sun shed light 

As from a lonely lamp ; 
And midway in the unsafe morass, 

.A. single Island rose 
Of firm dry ground, with healthful grass 

Adorned, and shady boughs. 

Til 3 Woodman knew, for such the craft 

This Russian vassal plied. 
That never fowler's gun, nor shaft 

Of archer, there was tried ; 
A sanctuary seemed the spot 

F"roni all intrusion free ; 
And there he planned an artful Cot 

For perfect secrecy. 

With earnest pains unchecked by dread 
Of Power's far-stretching hand, 

The bold good Man his labor sped, 
At nature's pure command ; 

HearUisoothed, and busy as a wren, 
I While, in a hollow nook. 

She moulds her sight-eluding den 
Above a murmuring brook. 

His task accomplished to his mind, 

The twain ere break of day 
Creep forth, and through the forest wind 

Their solitary way ; 
Few words they speak, nor dare to slack 

Their pace from mile to mile, 
Till they have crossed the quaking marsh, 

And reach the lonely Isle 

The sun above the pine-trees showed 

A bright and cheerful face ; 
And Ina looked for her abode, 

The promised hiding-place ; 
S-lie sought in vam, the Woodman smiles; 

No threshold could be seen, 
Nor I oof, nor window; — all seemed wild 

As it had ever been. 

Advancing, you might guess an hour, 
■ The front with such nice care 
Is masked, " if house it be or bower," 

But in they entered are ; 
As shaggy as were wall and root 

Witli branches intertwined. 
So smooth was all within, air-proof, 

And delicately lined : 



MISCFJ.LANEO US POEMS. 



463 



An 1 hearth was there, and maple disli, 

AikI cups in seemly rows, 
And couch — all ready to a wish 

For nurture or repose , 
And Heaven doth to her virtue grant 

That here she may abide 
In solitude, with every want 

By cautious love supplied. 

No queen, before a shouting crowd, 

Led en in bridal state. 
E'er struggled with a heart so proud, 

Entering her palace gate ; 
Rejoiced to bid the world tarcwcll, 

No samtly anchoress 
E'er took possession of her cell 

With deeper thankfulness. 

•' Father of all, upon thy care 

And mercy am 1 thrown ; 
Be thou my safeguard ! " — such her prayer 

When she was left alone, 
Kneeling amid the wilderness 

When joy had passed away, 
And smiles, fond efforts of distress 

To hide what they betray ' 

The prayer is heard, tiie Saints have seen, 

Diffused through form and face, 
Resolves devotedly serene , 

That monumental grace 
Of Faith, which doth all passions tame 

That Reason should control , 
And shows in the untrembling frame 

A btatuj of the soul 



PART III. 
'Tis sung m ancient minstrelsy 

That Phcebus wont to wear 
The leaves of any pleasant tree 

Around his golden hair ; 
Till Daphne, desperate with pursuit 

Of his imperious love, 
At lier own prayer transformed, took root, 

A laurel in the grove. 

Then did the Penitent adorn 

His brow with laurel green ; 
4.nd 'mid his bright locks never shorn 

No meaner leaf was seen ! 
And poets sage, through every age, 

About their temples wound 
The bay : and conquerors thanked the Gods, 

With laurel chaplets crowned, 
Into the mists of fabling Time 

So far runs back tlie praise 
Of beauty, that disdains to climb 

Along forbidden ways ; 



That scorns temptation ; power defies 

Where mutual love is not ; 

And to the tomb for rescue flies 

When life would be a blot. 

To this fair Votaress, a fate 

More mild doth Heaven ordain 
Upon her Island desolate ; 

And words, not breathed m vain, 
I\Iii;ht tell what intercom sj she found, 

Her silence to endear , 
What birds she tam^d, what flowers i\» 
ground 

Sent forth her peace to cheer. 

To one mute Presence, above all, 

Her soothed affections clung, 
A picture on the cabin wall 

I3y Russian usage hung — 
The Mother-maid, whose countenance bngh! 

Witli love abridged the day ; 
And, conimuned with by taper light, 

Chased spectral fears away. 

And oft, as either Guardian came, 

The joy in that retreat 
Might any common friendship shame. 

So high their hearts would beat , 
And to the lone Recluse, whate'er 

They brought, each visiting 
Was like the crowding of the year 

With a new burst of spring. 

But, when she of her Parents thought. 

The pang was hard to bear ; 
And, if with all things not enwrought. 

That trouble still is near. 
Before her flight she had not dared 

Their constancy to prove. 
Too much the heroic Daughter feared 

The weakness of their love. 

Dark is the past to them, and dark 

The future still must be, 
Till pitying Saints conduct her bark 

Into a safer ^..a — 
Or gentle Nature close her eyes 

And set her Spirit free 
From the altar of this sacrifice, 

In vestal purity. 

Vet, when above the forest-glooms 

The white swans southward passed. 
High as the pitch of their swift plunics 

Her fancy rode the blast ; 
.And bore her toward the field of Franct 

Her Father's native land, 
To mingle in the rustic dance, 

The happiest of the band 1 



II 



46 1 



MTSCEL LAiXEOUS POEMS. 



Of tliosc beloved fields she oft 

Had heard iier Father tell 
In phrase that now with echoes soft 

Haunted her lonely cell ; 
She saw the hereditary bowers, 

She heard the ancestral stream ; 
The Kremlin and its haughty towers 

Forgotten like a dream I 



PART IV. 

The cver-changmg moon had traced 

Twelve times her monthly round, 
When through the unfrequented Waste 

Was heard a startling sound; 
A shout thrice sent from one who chased 

At speed a wounded deer, 
bounding througli branches interlaced, 

And where the wood was clear. 

The famting creature took the marsh, 

And toward the Island fled, 
While plovers screamed with tumult harsh 

Above his antlered head ; 
This, Ina saw ; and, pale with fear, 

Shrunk to her citadel ; 
The desperate deer rushed on, and near 

The tangled covert fell. 

Across the marsli, the game in view, 

The Hunter followed fast. 
For paused, till o'er the stag he blew 

A death-proclaiming blast ; 
Then, resting on lier upright mind, 

Came forth the Maid—" In me 
Behold," she said, " a stricken Hind 

Pursued by destiny ! 

" From your deportment. Sir ! I deem 

That you have worn a sword. 
And will not hold in light esteem 

A suffering woman's word ; 
There is my covert, there perchance 

I might have Iain concealed. 
My fortunes hid, my countenance 

Not even to you revealed. 

'' Tears might be shed, at. J I might pray, 

Crouching and terrified, 
That what has been unveiled to-day, 

You would in mystery hide ; 
But I will not defile with dust 

The knee that bends to adore 
The God in heaven ; attend, be just , 

This ask I, and no more ! 

'* I speak not of the winter's cold. 
For rammer's heat exchanged, 



While I have lodged in this rough hold 

From social life estranged ; 
N(jr yet of trouble and alarms : 

High Heaven is my defence; 
And every season has soft arms 

For injured Innocence. 

'■ From Moscow to the Wilderness 

It was my choice to come. 
Lest virtue should be harborless, 

.^nd honor want a home , 
And happy were I, if the Czar 

Retain iiis lawless will, 
To end life here like this poor deer, 

Or a lamb on a green hill." 

" Are you the Maid," the stranger cried, 

" From Gallic parents sjirung, 
Whose vanishing was uimored wide 

Sad them;^ for every tongue ; 
Wlio foiled an Emperor's eager quest ? 

You, Lady, forced to wear 
These rude habiliments, and rest 

Your head in this dark lair ! " 

But wonder, pity, soon were quelled , 

.\nd in Iier face and mien 
The soul's pure brightness he beheld 

Without a veil between ; 
He loved, he hoped, — a holy flame 

Kindled 'mid rapturous tears ; 
The passion of a moment came 

As on the wings of years. 

" Such bounty is no gift of chance," 

Exclaimed he ; " righteous Heaven, 
Preparing your deliverance, 

To me the charge hath given. 
The Czar full oft in words and deeds 

Is stormy and self-willed ; 
But, when the Lady Catherine pleads, 

His violence is stilled 

" Leave open to my wish the course, 

And I to her will go ; 
From that humane and heavenly source 

Good, only good, can flow." 
Faint sanction given, the Cavalier 

Was eager to depart 
Though question followed question, deat 

To the Maiden's filial heart. 

Light was his step, his hopes, more light 

Kept pace with his desires ; 
And tiie fifth morning gave him sight 

Of Moscow's glittering spires. 
He sued — lieart smitten by the wrong. 

To the lorn Fugitive 



INSCiaPTIONS. 



465 



The Emperor sent a pledge as strong 
As sovereign power could give. 

O more than mighty change ! If e'er 

Amazement rose to pain, 
And )oy's excess produced a fear 

Of something void and vain . 
Twas when the Parents, who had mourned 

So long the lost as dead, 
Beheld their only Child returned, 

The household floor to tread. 

Soon gratitude gave way to love 

Within the Maiden's breast ; 
Delivered and Deliverer move 

In bridal garments drest. 



Meek Catherine had her own reward \ 

The Czar bestowed a dower. 
And universal Moscow shared 

The triumph of that hour 

Flowers strewed the ground, the nupti 
feast 

Wag held with costly state ; 
And there, 'mid many a noble guest, 

The Foster-parents sate ; 
Encouraged by the imperial eye, 

They shrank not into shade , 
Great was their bliss, the honor high 

To them and nature paid I 
1830. 



INSCRIPTIONS. 



IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON, THE 
SEAT OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART., 
LEICESTERSHIRE. 

1S08. 

The embowering rose, the acacia, and the 
pine 

Will not unwillingly their place resign ; 

If but the Cedar thrive that near them 
stands, 

Planted by Beaumont's and by Words- 
worth's hands. 

One wooed the silent Art with studious 
pains t 

These groves have heard the Other's pen- 
sive strains ; 

Devoted thus, their spirits did unite 

By interchange of knowledge and delight. 

May Nature's kindliest powers sustain the 
Tree, 

And Love protect it from all injury ! 

And when its potent branches, wide out- 
thrown. 

Darken the brow of this memorial Stone, 

Here may some Painter sit in future days, 

Some future Poet meditate his lays ; 

Not mindless of that distant age renowned 

When Inspiration hovered o'er this ground. 

The haunt of him who sang how spear and 
shield 



l!i civil conflict met on Bosworth-field ; 

And of that famous Youth, full soon re 
moved 

From earth, perhaps by Shakspeare's self 
approved, 

Fletcher's Associate, Jonson's Friend be- 
loved. 



IN A GARDEN OF THE SAME. 

Oft is the medal faithful to its trust 
When temples, columns, towers, are laid is 

dust ; 
And 'tis a common ordinance of fate 
That things obscure and small outlive thj 

great . 
Hence, when yon mansion and the flowery 

trim 
Of this fair garden, and its alleys dim. 
And all its stately trees, are passed away. 
This little Niche, unconscious of decay. 
Perchance may still survive. And be it 

known 
That it was scooped within the living 

stone, — 
Not by the sluggish and ungrateful pains 
Of laborer plodding for his daily gains, 
But by an industry that wrought in love ; 
With help from female hands, that proudlj 

strove 



466 



rXSCRIPTrONS. 



To aid the work, what time these walks and 

bowers 
(Vera sliaped to cheer dark winter's lonely 

hours. 



III. 



Written at the request of sir 
george beaumont, bart , and in 
his name, for an urn, placed bv him 
at the termination of a newly- 
planted avenue, in the same 

GROUNDS. 

Ye Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed 

Urn, 
Shoot forth with lively power at Spring's re- 
turn ; 
And be not slow a stately growth to rear 
Ot pillars, branctung off from year to year. 
Till they iiave learned to frame a darksome 

aisle ; — 
That may recall to mmd tliat awful Pile 
VViiere Reynolds, 'mid our country's noblest 

dead. 
In the last sanctity of fame is laid. 
— There, though by right the excelling 

Painter sleep 
Where Death and Glory a joint sabbath 

keep, 
Yet not the less his Spirit would hold dear 
Self-hidden praise, and Friendship's private 

tear : 
Hence, on my patrimonial grounds, have I 
Raised this frail tribute to his memory ; 
From youth a zealous follower of the Art 
That he professed ; attached to him in 

heart ; 
Admiring, loving, and with grief and pride 
Feeling what England lost when Reynolds 

died. 



FOR A SEAT IN THE GROVES OF COLEOR- 
TON. 

Beneath yon eastern ridge, the craggy 

bound, 
Rugged and high, o^ Charnwood's forest 

ground 
Stand yet, but. Stranger! hidden from thy 

view, 
The ivied Ruins of forlorn Grace Dieu ! 
Erst a religious House, which day and night 
With hymns rewiunded, and the chanted 

nts; 



And when those rites had ceased, the Spot 

gave birth 
To honorable Men of various worth ; 
There, on the margin of a streamlet wild, 
Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager 

child ; 
There, under shadow of the neighboring 

rocks. 
Sang youthful tales of shepherds and their 

flocks ; 
Unconscious prelude to heroic themes, 
Heart-breaking tears, and melancholy 

dreams 
Of slighted love, and scorn, and jealous 

rage. 
With which his genius shook the buskined 

stage. 
Communities are lost, and Empires die. 
And things of holy use unhallowed he , 
They perish ,— but the Intellect can raise, 
From airy words alone, a Pile that ne'ei 

decays. 
1 80S. 



written with a pencil UPON A STONE 
IN THE WALL OF THE HOUSE (AN 
OU l-HOUiiE), ON THE ISLAND AT GRAS- 
MERE. 

RuuE is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen 
Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained 
Proportions more harmonious, and ap- 
proached 
To closer fellowship with ideal grace. 
But take it in good part — alas ! the poor 
Vitruvius of our village had no help 
From the great City ; never, upon leaves 
Of red Morocco folio saw displayed, 
In long succession, pre-existing ghosts 
Of Beauties yet unborn— the rustic Lodge 
Antique, and Cottage with veranda graced, 
Nor lacking, for fit company, alcove, 
Green-house, shell-grot, and moss-lined her- 
mitage. 
Thou see'st a homely Pile, yet to these walls 
The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and 

here 
TliC new-dropped lamb finds shelter from 

the wind. 
And hither does one Poet sometimes row 
His pinnance, a small vagrant barge, up- 
piled 
With plenteous store of heath and withered 

fern, 
(A lading which he with his sickle cuts, 



INSCRIPTIO.VS 



46) 



Among the moiintidns) and beneath this 

roof 
He makes his summer couch, and here at 

noon 
Spreads out his hmbs, while, yet unshorn, 

the Slieep, 
Pantmg beneath the burthen of their wool, 
Lie round him even as if they were a part 
Of his own Household ; nor, wliile from his 

bed 
He looks, through the open door-place, to- 
ward the lake 
And to the stirring breezes, dees b.e want 
Creations lovely as the work of sleep — 
Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy ! 



VI. 



WRITTEN WITH A SLATF. PENCIL ON A 
STONK, ON THE SIDE OK THE MOUN 
TAIN OK BLACK COMB, 

Stay, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy 

limbs 
On tins commodious Seat ! for much re- 
mains 
Of hard ascent before thou reach the top 
Of this huge Eminence, — fiom blackness 

named, 
And, to far-travelled storms of sea and land, 
A favored spot of tournament and war ! 
But thee may no such boisterous visitants 
Molest ; may gentle breezes fan thy brow ; 
And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air 
Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle, 
From centre to circumference, unveiled ! 
Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy 

rest. 
That on the summit whither thou art bound 
A geographic Laborer pitched his tent. 
With books supplied and instruments of 

art, 
To measure height and distance ; lonely 

task. 
Week after week pursued! — To hini was 

given 
Full many a glimpse (but sparingly be- 
stowed 
On timid man) of Nature's processes 
Upon the exalted hills. He made report 
That once, while there he plied his studious 

work 
Within that canvas dwelling, colors, lines. 
And the whole surface of the out-spread 

map, 
Became invisible ; for all around 



Had darkness fallen — unth.eatened, unpro 

claimed — 
As if the golden day itself had been 
Extinguished in a moment ; total gloom, 
In which he sate alone, with unclosed eves, 
Upon the blinded mountain's silent topi 



VII, 

written WITH A SLATE PENCIL UPON 
A STONE, THE LARGEST OK A HEAP 
LYING NEAR A DESERTED QUARRY, 
UPON ONE OK THE ISLANDS OK RYDAL. 

Stranger! this hillock of mis-shapen 

stones 
Is not a Ruin spared or made by time. 
Nor, as perchance thou rashly ideem'st, the 

Cairn 
Of some old British Chief : "tis nothing 

more 
Than the rude embryo of a little Dome 
Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be built 
Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle. 
But, as it chanced. Sir William having 

learned 
That from the shore a full-grown man might 

wade. 
And make himself a freeman of this spot 
At any hour he ciiose, the prudent Knight 
Desisted, and the quarry and the mound 
Are monuments of his unfinished task. 
The block on which these lines are traced, 

perhaps. 
Was once selected as the corner-stone 
Of that intended Pile, which would have 

been 
Some quaint odd play tiling of elaborate 

skill. 
So tliat, I guess, the linnet and the thrush, 
And other little builders who dwell here, 
Had wondered at the work. But blame him 

not, 
For eld Sir William was a gentle Knight, 
Bred in this vale, to which lie appertained 
With all his ancestry. Then peace to him 
And for the outrage v/hich he had devised 
Entire forgiveness ! — But if thou art one 
On fire with thy impatience to become 
An inmate of these mountains,— Jt, di» 
1 turbed 

By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn 
Out of the quiet rock the elements 
Of thy trim Mansion destined soon to blaze 
in snow-white splendor, — think again ; and, 

taught 



|68 



INSCRIPTIONS. 



By old Sir William and his quarry, leave 
Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose ; 
There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself, 
And let the redbreast hop from stone to 
stone. 
1800. 



In these fair vales hath many a Tree 

At Wordsworth's suit been spared; 
And from the builder's hand tliis Stone, 
Fo: some rude beauty of its own, 

Was rescued by the Bard : 
So let it rest ; and time will come 

When here the tender-hearted 
May heave a gentle sigh for him, 

As one of the departed. 
1 8 JO. 



The massy ways, carried across these 

heights 
Rv Roman perseverance, are destroyed, 
Or hidden under ground, like sleeping 

worms. 
How venture them to hope that Time will 

spare 
This humble Walk ? Yet on the mountain's 

side 
A Poet's hand first shaped it ; and the 

steps 
Of that same Bard— repeated to and fro 
At morn, at noon, and under moonlight 

skies 
Through the vicissitudes of many a year — 
Foibade the weeds to creep o'er its gray 

line. 
No longer, scattering to the heedless winds 
The vocal raptures of fresh poesy. 
Shall he frequent those precincts ; locked 

no more 
In earnest converse with beloved Friends, 
Here will he gather stores ot ready bliss, 
As from the beds and borders ot a garden 
Choice flowers are gathered 1 But, if Power 

may spring 
Out of a farewell yearning — favored more 
Than kindred wishes mated suitably 
With vain regrets— the Exile would consign 
This Walk, his loved possession, to the care 
Of those pure Minds that reverence the 
Muse. 
1826. 



INSCRIPTIONS SUPPOSED TO BE FOlN» 
IN AND NEAR A HERMITS Chi.L 

1S18, • 

I 

Hopes what are they ?— Beads of murnaii 

Stung on slender blades of grass , 

Or a spider's web adorning 

in a straight and treacherous pass. 

What are fears but voices airy.' 
Whispering harm where harm is not; 
And deluding the unwary 
Till the fatal bolt is shot ! 

What is glory ? in the socket 
See how dying tapers fare ! 
What is pride?— a whizzing rocket 
Tliat would emulate a star. 

Wiiat is friendship ? — do not trust her. 
Nor the vows which she has made. 
Diamonds dart their brightest lust;,-: 
From a palsy-shaken head. 

What IS truth ?— a staff rejected ; 
Duty ? — an unwelcome clog ; 
Joy ? — a moon by fits reflected 
In a swamp or watery bog ; 

Bright, as if through ether steering, 
To the Traveller's eye it shone : 
He hath hailed it re-appearing — 
And as quickly it is gone ; 

Such is Joy — as quickly hidden 
Or mis-shapen to the sight, 
And by sullen weeds forbidden 
To resume its native light. 

What is youth ? — a dancing billow, 
( Winds behind, and rocks before !) 
Age? — a drooping, to'.tenng willow 
On a flat and lazy shore. 

What is peace ? — when pain is over, 
And love ceases to rebel. 
Let the last faint sigh discover 
That precedes the passing-knell 1 



INSCRIBED UPON A ROCK. 
II 

Pause, Traveller! whosoe'er thou be 
Whom chance may lead to this retreat, 
Wliere silence yields reluctantlv 
Even to the fleecy straggler's bleat ; 



INSCRfPTlOXS. 



4t>9 



Give voice to what my hand shall trace, 
And fear not lest an idle sound 
Ot words unsuited to the place 
Disturb Its solitude profound 

I saw this Rock, while vernal air 
Blew softly o'er the russet heath, 
Uphold a Monument as fair 
As church or abbey furnisheth. 

Unsullied did it meet the day, 
Like marble, white, like ether, pure ; 
As if, beneath, some hero lay, 
Honored with costliest sepulture. 

My fancy kindled as I s;azed ; 

A nd, ever as the sun shone forth. 

The flattered structure glistened, blazed, 

And seemed the proudest thing on eaith. 

But frost had reared the gorgeous Pile 
Unsound as those which Fortune builds — 
To undermine with secret guile, 
Sapped by the very beam that gilds. 

And, while I gazed, with sudden shock 
Fell the whole Fabric to the ground ; 
And naked loft this dripping Rock, 
With shapeless rum spread around ! 



H.AST thou seen, with flash incessant, 
rubbles gliding under ice, 
Ilodicd forth and evanescent. 
No one knows by what device? 

Such are thoughts ! — A wind-swept ni.'adow 

Mimicking a troubled sea. 

Such IS life ; and death a shadow 

From the rock eternity ! 



NEAR THE SPRING OF THE HERMITAGE. 
IV. 

Troubled long with warring notions 
I-ong impatient of thy rod, 
I resign my soul's emotions 
Unto Thee, mysterious God ! 

What avails the kindly shelter 
V. elded bv this craggy rent, 
If my spirit toss nnd welter 
' On the wiives of dibcontent 



Parching Summer hath no warrant 
To consume this crystal Well . 
Ka.ns. that make each nlli a torrent 
Neither sully it nor swell 

Thus, dishonoring not her staton. 
Would my Life present to Tliee, 
Gracions God, the pure oblation 
U diviue tranquillity ! 



Not seldom, clad in radiant vest, 
Deceitfully goes forth the Morn ; 
Not seldom Evening in the west 
Sinks smilingly forsworn 

The smoothest seas will sonutimes prove 
To the confiding Bark untrue 
And, if she trust the stars above, 
They can be treacherous too. 

The umbrageous Oak, in pomp oi. .spread. 
Full oft, when storms the welkin rend. 
Draws lightning down upon the head 
It promised to defend. 

Rut Thou art true, incarnate Lord, 
Who didst vouchsafe for man to die ; 
Thy smile is sure, thy plighted word 
No change can falsify! 

I bent before thy gracious fhionc. 
And asked (or peace on sujipluint knee ; 
And peace was given, — nor peace alone, 
But faith sublimed to ecstasy ! 



XV 



FOR THE SPOT WHERE THE HERMITAGH 
STOOD ON ST. HKRBKKT's ISLAND, 
DERWENT-WATER. 

If thou in the dear love of some one Friend 

Hast been so happy that thou knowst what 
thoughts 

Will sometimes in the happiness of love 

Make the heart sink, then wilt thou rever- 
ence 

This quiet spot ; and, Stranger ! not un 
moved 

Wilt thou behold this shapeless heap of 
stones. 

The desolate ruins of St. Herbert's Cell. 

Here stood his threshold ; here *as spread 
the roof 



470 



SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER. 



That sheltered him, a self secluded Man, 

After long exercise in social cares 

And offices humane, intent to adore 

The Deity, with iindistractcd nund, 

And meditate on everlastmg things, 

In utter solitude.— But he had left 

A Fellow-laborer, whom the good Man 

loved 
As his own soul. And, when with eye up- 
raised 
To heaven he knelt before the crucifix, 
While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore 
Pealed to his orisons, and when he paced 
Along the beach of this small isle and 

thought 
Of his Companion, he would pray that both 
(Now that their earthly duties were fulfilled) 
Might die in the same moment. Nor in 

^ vain 
So prayed he .—as our chronicles report, 



Though here the Hermit numbered his last 

day 
Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved Friend, 
Those holy men both died in the same hour. 
1800. 



0\ THE BANKS OF .A ROCKY STREAM. 

Behold an emblem of our human nund j 
Crowded with thoughts that need a settled 

home,, 
i Vet, like to eddying balls of foam 
j Within this whirlpool, they each othet 
I chase " 

I Round and round, and neither find 
j An outlet nor a resting-place ! 
I Stranger! if such disquietude be thine, 
I Fall on thy knees and sue for help divine. 



SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER. 



MODERNIZED. 



I. 

THE PRIORESS' TALE. 

•• Call up him who leii halt told 
The btory ot Cambuscan bold '* 
In the {oilowuig Poem no further deviation 
from the original has been made than was 
necessary for the fluent teading and instant 
uiiderstanduig ol the Author, so much, how- 
ever, IS the language altered snice Chaucer's 
time, especially m pronunciation, that much 
was to be removed, and its place supplied with 
as little incongruity as possible. The ancient j 
accent has been letair.ed in a lew con)unctions, 
as also and nhvhy, trom a conviction that such 
sprinklings ot antiquity wou.d be admitted, by 
persons of taste, to have a j^raceful accordance 
Willi the subiect. The fierce bigotry of the 
Prioress forms a fine back-ground for her 
tender-hearted sympathies with the Mother and 
Cliild ; and the mode in which the story is told 
amply atones for the extravagance ct the 
miracle. 

I. 
"OLoRD, our Lord! how wondrously," 

(quoth she) 
•*Tliy name in this large world ia spread 

abroad 1 



For not alone by men of dignity 

Thy worship is performed and precious 

laud ; 
But by the mouths of children, grat'oas 

God! 
Thy goodness is set forth ; they when they 

he 
Upon the breast thy name do glorify. 

II. 

Wherefore in praise, the worthiest that 1 

may, 
Jcsu! of thee, and the white Lily-flower 
Which did thee bear, and is a Maid tor aye, 
To tell a story I will use my power ; 
Not that I may increase her honor's dower, 
For she herselt is honor, and the root 
Of goodness, next her Son, our souPs best 

boot. 

in. 
O Mother Maid ! O Maid and Mother free' 
O bush unburnt ! burning in Moses' sight! 
That down didst ravish from the Deity, 
Through humbleness, the spirit that did 

alight 



SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER. 



471 



Upon tliy Iieart. whence, tlirougli tliat 

glory's might, 
Conceived was llie Father's sapience, 
Help me to tell it in thy reverence ! 



Lady ! thy goodness, thy magnificence, 

Thy virtue, and thy great humility, 

Surpass all science and ail utterance ; 

For sometimes, Lady ! ere men pay to thee 

Thou goest before in thy benignity. 

The light to us vouchsahng ot thy prayer, 

To be our guide unto thy Sen so dear. 

V. 

My knowledge is so weak, O blissful 

Queen ! 
To tell abroad thy mighty worthiness. 
That I the weight of it may not sustain ; 
But as a child of twelve months old or less, 
That laboreth his language to express, 
Even so fare I ; «nd tlierefore, 1 thee pray. 
Guide thou my song which 1 of thee shall 

say. 

VI. 

There was in Asia, in a mighty town, 
'Mong Christian folk, a street where Jews 

might be. 
Assigned to them and given them for their 

own 
By a great Lord, for gain and usury. 
Hateful to Christ and to his company ; 
And through this street who list might ride 

and wend ; 
Free was it, and unbarred at either end. 

VII. 

A little school of Christian people stood 
Down at the farther end, in which there 

were 
A nest of children come of Christian blood, 
That learnM in that school from year to 

year 
Such sort of doctrine as men used there, 
That is to say, to sing, and read also. 
As little children in their childhood do, 

VIII. 

Among these children was a Widow's son, 
A little scholar, scarcely seven years old. 
Who day by day unto this school hath gone. 
And eke, when he the image did behold 
Of Jesu's Mother, as he had been told, 
This Child was wont to kneel adown and 

say 
Ave Aiaria, as he goeth by the way. 



This Widow thus her little Son hath 

taught 
Our blissful Lady, Jesu's Mothei dear, 
To worsiiip aye, and he forgat it not ; 
For simple infant hath a ready ear. 
Sweet IS the holiness of youth : and hencu 
Calling to mind this matter when I may, 
Saint Nicholas in my presence standeth aye, 
For he so young to Clirist did reverence. 



This little Child, while in the school he 
sate 

His Primer conning with an earnest cheer, 

The whilst the rest their anthem book re- 
peat, 

The Ahiia Rcdoufloris did he hear ; 

And as lie durst lie drew him near and 
near. 

And hearkened to the words and to the 
note. 

Till the first verse he learned it all by rote. 



This Latin knew he nothing what it said, 
F"or he too tender was of age to know ; 
But to his comrade he repaired, and prayed 
That he the meaning of this song would 

show, 
And unto him declare why men sing so ; 
This oftentimes, that he might be at ease. 
This child did him beseech on his bare 

knees. 

XII. 

His Schoolfellow, who elder was than he, 
Answered him thus: — 'This song, I liave 

heard say, 
Was fashioned for our blissful Lady free ,• 
Her to salute, and also her to pray 
To be our help upon our dying day: 
If there is more in this, 1 know it not ; 
Song do I learn, — small grammar 1 hav^ 

got/ 

xin. 

* And is this song fashioned in reverence 
Of Jesu's Mother ? ' said this Innocent ; 
' Now, certes, I will use my chligence 
To con it all ere Christmas-tide be spent ; 
Although 1 for my Frimer shall be shent, 
And shall be beaten three times in an hout 
Our Lady I will praise with all my pover/ 



472 



SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER, 



His Schoolfellow, wliom he had so be- 
sought, 

As they went nomeward taught him privily 

And then he sang it well and fearlessly, 

From word to word according to the note ; 

Twice in a day it passed through his 
throat ; 

Homeward and schoolward whensoe'er he 
went. 

On Jesu's Mother fixed was his intent 

XV 

Through all the Jewry (this before said I) 
Tiiis little Child, as he came to and fro, 
Full merrily then would he sing and cry, 
O Alma Redcviptoris ' |iigh and low ; 
Tlie sweetness of Christ's Mother pierced 

so 
His heart, that her to praise, to her to pray. 
He cannot stop his singing by the way. 



The Serpent, Satan, our first foe, that hath 
His wasp's nest in Jew's heart, upswelled — 

• O woe, 
O Hebrew peojile ! ' said he in his wrath, 
' Is it an honest thing ? Shall tliis be so ? 
That sucii a Hoy where'er he lists shall go 
In your despite, and sing his hymns and 

saws. 
Which is against the reverence of our 

laws ! ' 



From that day forward have the Jews con 

spired 
Out ot the world this Innocent to chase ; 
And to this end a Homicide they lured, 
That in an alley had a privy place, 
And, as the Child 'gan to the school to 

jiace. 
This cruel Jew him seized, and lield him 

fast 
And cut his throat, and in a pit him cast. 

XVIIl. 

I say that him into a pit they threw, 

A loatlisome pit, whence noisome scents ex- 
hale ; 

O cursed ff>lk ! away, ye Herods new ! 

What mav your ill intentions you avail ? 

Murder will out ; certfes it will not fail ; 

Know, that the honor of high God may 
spread, 

The blood cries out on your uccursM deed . 



Martyr 'stablished in virginity ! 

Now may'st thou sing for aye before thi 

throne, 
Following the Lamb celestial," quoth she, 
" Of which the great Evangelist, Saint 

John, 
In Patmos wrote, who saithof them that go 
Before the Lamb singing continually, 
That never fleshly woman they did know. 



Now this poor widow waiteth al' that night 
After her little Child, and he came not; 
For which, by eailiest glimpse of morning 

light. 
With face all pale with dread and busy 

thought, 
She at the school and elsewhere him hath 

sought. 
Until thus far she learned, that he had been 
In the Jews' street, and there he last was 

seen. 



With Mother's ]);ty in her breast enclosed 
She g()eth,as she were half out of her nund, 
To every place wherein she hath supj used 
Hy likelihood her little Son to find ; 
A nd ever on Christ's Mother meek and kind 
She cried, till to the Jewry she was brought. 
And him among the accursed Jews she 
sought. 



She asketh, an 1 she piteously doth prav 
To every Jew that dwelleth in that place 
To tell her if iier child had passed that way, 
They all said — Nay ; but Jesu of liis grace 
Gave to her thought, that in r. little space 
She for her Son in that same sp( I did cry 
Where he was cast into a pit harJ by. 

XXllL 

O thou great God th il dost perform il-j 

laud 
By mouths of Innocents, 1 i here thj 

might-. 
This gem of chastity, ' is emerak , 
And eke of martyrdom 'is .uby bright, 
There, where willi .nangled tliroal he lay 

u plight, 
The Ainia Reiicmptoris gan to sing 
So loud that with ins voice the pLvr i}\X 



SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER. 



47: 



The Christian folk that through the Jewry 

went, 
Come to tlie spot in wonder at the thing ; 
And hastily tlicy for the Provost sent ; 
Immediately he came, not tarrying 
And praiscth Christ that is our heavenly 

King, 
And eke his Mother, honor of Mankind : 
\V!\icl) done., he bade that tiiey the Jews 

should bind. 



T!iis Child with piteous lamentation then 
Was taken up, singing his song aiway; 
!\nd with procession great and pomp of 

men 
To the next Abbey him they bare away ; 
His Mother swooning by the body lay . 
And scarcely could the peoi)lc that were 

near 
Remove this second Rachel from the bier. 

XXVI. 

Torment and shameful death to every one 

This Provost does for those bad Jews pre- 
pare 

That of this murder wist, and that anon : 

Such wickedness his judgments cannot 
spare , 

Who will do evil, e-.vil shall he bear ; 

Tiiem therefore with wild horses did he 
draw, 

And after that he hung them by the law 



Upon his bier this Innocent doth lie 
Before the altar while the Mass doth last : 
The Abbot with his covent's company 
Then sped themselves to bury him full fast ; 
And, when they holy water on him cast, 
Yet spake this Child when sprinkled was 

the water, 
And sang, O Alma Redemptoris Mater ' 

XXVIII. 

This Abbot, for he was a holy man, 
As all Monks are, or surely ought to be, 
In supplication to the Child becjan, 

us the saying, ' O dear Child 1 1 summon 
thee 
In virtue of the holy Trinity 
Tell me the cause why thou dost sing this 

hvmn, 
Bince that thy throat is cut, as it doth ,>jem.' 



' My throat is cut into the bone. I trow,' 
Said this young Child, ' and by the law oi 

kind 
I .should have died, yea many hours ago ; 
But Jesus Christ, as in the books ye find. 
Will that his glory last, and be in mind ; 
And, for the worship of his Mother dear, 
Yet may I sing, O Alma ' loud and cleai. 



' This well of mercy, Jesu's Mother sweet. 
After my knowledge, I have loved alw^y ; 
And in the hour when I my death did mee» 
To me she came, and thus to me did say, 
'' Tliou in thy dying sing this holy lay," 
As ye have heard ; and soon as I had sung 
Methought she laid a grain upon my 
tongue. 



' Wherefore I sing, nor can from song re- 
frain. 
In honor of that blissful Maiden free, 
Till from my tongue off-taken is the grain 
And after that thus said she unto me ; 
•' My little Child, then will I come for thee 
Soon as the grain from off thy tongue they 

take; 
Be aot dismayed, I will not thee forsake !"* 



This holy Monk, this Abbot — him mean I, 
Touched then his tongue, and took away the 

grain ; 
And he gave up the ghost full peacefully ; 
And, when the Abbot had this wonder seen, 
His salt tears trickled down like showers of 

rain ; 
And on his face he dropped upon thf 

ground. 
And still he lay as if he had been bound. 



Eke the whole Convent on the pavement 

lay, 
Weeping and praising Jesu's Mother dear ; 
And after that they rose, and took their 

way, 
-And lifted up this Martyr from the bier, 
.And in a tomb of precious marble clear 
Enclosed his uncorrupted body sweet. — 
Where'er he be, God grant us him to meet 



47^ 



SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER. 



XXXIV. 

Voung Hew of Lincoln ! in like sort laid 

low 
By cursed Jews— tiling well and widely 

known, 
For It was done a little while ago— 
Pray also thou for us, while here we tarry 
Weak sinful folk, that God, with pitying eye, 
In mercy would his mercy multiply 
On us, for reverence of his Mother Mary ! " 



THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHT- 
INGALE 

I. 

The God of Love— <i//, bencdicdc ' 
How mighty and how great a Lord is he ! 
For he of low iiearts can make high, of high 
He can make low, and unto death bring 

nigh ; 
And hard hearts he can make them kind 

and free. 



Within a little time, as hath been found. 
He can make sick folk whole and fresh and 

sound. 
Them who are whole in body and in mind, 
H • can make sick, — bind can he and unbind 
All that he will have bound, or have un- 
bound. 

III. 
To tell hi'- might my wit may not suffice ; 
JI<'oolish men he can make them out of 

wise — 
For h ■ may do all that he will devise ; 
Loose livers he can make abate their vice, 
And proud hearts can make tremble in si 
trice. 

IV. 

\x\ brief, the whole of what he will, he may 
AN-rainst him dare not any wight say nay; 
'I'd humble or afflict whome'er he will, 
'l"o gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill ; 
iJut most his might he sheds on the eve of 

May. 

V. 
For every true heart, gentle heart and free, 
That with him is, or thinketh so to be, 
Now against May shall have some stirring 

— whether 
To joy, or be it to some mourning ; never 
At other tim^, methinks, in like degree. 



VI. 

For now when they may hear the small 

birds' song, 
And see the budding leaves the branches 

throng, 
This unto their remembrance doth bring 
All kinds of pleasure mixed with sorrow 

ing ; 
And longing of sweet thoughts that ever 

long 



And of that longing heaviness doth come. 
Whence oft great sickness grows of heart 

and home ; 
Sick arc they all for lack of their desire ; 
And thus in May their hearts are set on fire. 
So that they burn forth in great martyrdom 



In sooth, I speak from feeling, what though 

now 
Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow ; 
Yet have I felt of sickness through the May, 
Both hot and cold, and heart arhes every 

day,— 
How hard, alas ! to bear, I only know. 

IX. 

Such shaking doth the fever in me keep 
Through all this May that I have little sleep; 
And also 'tis not likely unto me, 
That any living heart should sleepy be 
In which Love's dart its fiery point doth 
steep. 

X. 

But tossing lately on a sleepless bed. 
I of a token thought which Lovers heed , 
How among them it was a common tale 
That it was good to hear the Niglitingale, 
Ere the vile Cuckoo's note be uttered. 



And then I thought anon as it was day, 
I gladly would go somewhere to essay 
If I perchance a Nightinc;ale miqht hear, 
For yet had I heard none, of all that vear. 
And it was then the ihird night of the May 



.And soon as I a glimpse of day espied. 
No longer would I in my bed abide, 
Ri't straightway to a wood that was hard by 
Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly. 
And held the pathway down by a brook* 
side; 



SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER. 



475 



Til! to a (awn I came all white and green, 

1 in so fair a one had never been. 

The ground was green, with daisy powdered 

over ; 
Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover, 
Ail green and wlute ; and nothing else was 

seen. 

XIV. 

riicro sate I down among the fair fresh 

flowers, 
And saw the b'.rds come tripping from their 

bowers, 
VVIicre they had rested them all night ; and 

they. 
Who were so joyful at the light ot day, 
Began to honor May with all their powers 

XV. 

Well did they know that service all by rote, 
And there was many and many a lovely note, 
Some, singing loud, as if they had com- 
plained ; 
Some witli their notes another manner 

feigned , 
And some did sing all out with the full 
tiuoat. 

XVI. 

They pruned themselves, and made them- 
selves right gay, 
Dancing and leaping light upon the spray ; 
And ever two and two together were, 
'J'he same as they had cliosen for the year, 
Upon Saint Valentine's returning day 

XVII. 

Meanwhdc the stream, whose bank I sate 

upon, 
Was making such a noise as it ran on 
Accordant to the sweet Birds' harmony ; 
Methot:glit tliat it was the l)est melody 
Which ever to man's ear a passage won. 



And for delight, but how I never wot, 
I in a slumber and a swoon was caught, 
Not all asleep and yet not waking wholly ; 
And as I lay, the Cuckoo, bird unholy, 
Broke silence, or I heard him in my thought. 



And that was right upon a tree fast by. 
And who was then ill satisfied but I 1 
Now, God, quoth I, that died upon the rood, 
From thee and thy base throat, keep all 

that's good, 
^vXi little joy have I now of thy cry. 



And, as I with the Cuckoo thus 'gan chide, 
111 the next Ijusli that was me fast l>eside, 
I heard the lusty Niglitingale so sing, 
Th^t her clear voice made a loud rioting. 
Echoing through all the green wood wide. 



Ah ! good sweet Nightingale ! for my heart's 

cheer. 
Hence hast thou stay'd a little while loo long , 
For we have had the sorry Cuckf.o here. 
And siic liath been before thee with htr song ; 
Evil light on her ! she hath done me wrong. 

XXII. 

But hear you now a wondrous thing, f pray 
As long as in that swooning-ht 1 lay, 
Methought I wist right well what these 

birds meant. 
And had good knowing both of their intent, 
And of their speech, and all that they would 

say. 

XXIII. 

The Nightingale thus in my hcarhig spake — 
Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or 

brake, 
And, prithee, let us that can sing dwell here, 
For every wight eschews thy song to hear, 
Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make. 

XXIV. 

What ! quoth she then, what is't that ails 

thee now t 
It seems to mc I sing as well as thou , 
For mine's a song that is both true and 

plain, — 
Although I cannot quaver so in vain 
As thou dost m thy throat, 1 wot not how. 



All men may understanding have of me, 
But, Nightingale, so may they not of thee ; 
For thou hast many a foolish and quaint 

cry ; — 
Thou say'st Oske, Osf.e : then how may I 
Have knowledge, I thee pray, what this may 

be 



Ah, fool ! quoth she, wist thou not what it is * 

Oft as 1 say Osee, Osee, I wis, 

Then mean I that I sliould be wondrous 

fain 
That shamefullv they one and all were slain 
Whoever against Love mean aught amiss. 



476 



SELECTION'S FROM CHAUCER. 



XXVII. 

And also would I that they all were dead 
Who do not think in love their lite to lead ; 
For who Is loth the Ciod of Love to obey 
Is only fit to die, 1 dare well say, 
And for that cause Osee 1 cry ; take heed ! 

XXVIII. 

Ay, quoth the Cuckoo, that is a quaint law, 
That all must love or die ; but 1 withdraw, 
And take my leave of all such company, 
For mine intent it neither is to die. 
Nor ever while I live Love's yoke to draw. 



For lovers, of all folk that be alive, 
The most disquiet have and least do thrive ; 
Most feeling have of sorrow, woe and care, 
And the least welfare cometli to their share ; 
What need is there against the truth to 
strive i" 



of thy 



XXX. 

What ! quoth she, thou art all out 

mind, 

That in thy churlishness a cause canst find 
To speak of Love's true Servants in this 

mood , 
For in this world no service is so good 
To every wight that gentle is of kind. 

XXXI. 

For thereof comes all goodness and all 

worth • 
All gentiless and honor thence come forth , 
Thence worsliip comes, content and true 

heart's pleasu"-?, 
And full-assured trust, joy without measure, 
And jollity, fresh cheerfulness, and mirth ; 

XXXII. 

And bounty, lowliness, and courtesy. 
And seemhness, and faithful company. 
And dread of shame that will not do amiss ; 
For he that faithfully Love's servant is, 
Rather than be disgraced, would choose to 
die. 



And that the very truth it is which I 
Now say — in such belief I'll live and die ; 
And Cuckoo, do thou so. by my advice. 
Then, quoth she, let me never hope for bliss, 
U with that counsel I do e'er comply. 



Good Nightingale ! thou speakest wondrous 

fair, 
Yet for all that, the truth is found elsewhere; 
P~or Love in young folk is but rage, I wisj 
And Love in old folk a great dotage is ; 
Who most it useth, him 'twill most impair. 

XXXV. 

For thereof come all contraries to glad- 

ness ; 
Thence sickness comes, and overwhelming 

sadness, 
Mistrust and jealousy, despite, debate, 
Dishonor, shame, envy im[}oi-cunate, 
Pndc, anger, mischief, poverty, and mad- 
ness. 

XXXVI. 

Loving is aye an office of despair, 

And one thing is therein which is not fair; 

For whoso gets of love a little bliss, 

Unless it alway stay with him, I wis 

He may full soon go with an old man's hair, 

xxxvn. 

And, therefore, Nightingale! do thou keep 

nigh. 
For trust me well, in spite of thy quaint cry, 
]f long time from thy mate thou be, or far, 
Thou'lt be as others that forsaken are; 
Then shalt thou raise a clamor as do L 



Fie, quoth she, on thy name, Bird ill beseen ! 
The God of Love atViict thee with all teen. 
For thou art worse than mad a thousand 

fold ,- 
For many a one hath virtues manifold, 
Who had been naught, if Love had never 

been. 



For evermore his servants Love amendeth 
And he from every blemish them defendeth • 
And maketh them to burn, as in a fire. 
In loyalty, and worshipful desire. 
And, when it likes him, joy enough them 
sendeth. 

XL. 

Thou Nightingale ! the Cuckoo said, be 

still 
For Love no reason hath but his own will ,•— 
For to th' untrue he oft gives ease and joy ; 
True lovers doth so bitterly annoy, 
He lets them perish through that grievtms 

ill. 



SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER. 



477 



With such a master would I never be ; 
For he, in sooth, is blind, and may not see, 
And knows not when he hurts and when he 

heals ; 
Withiuthis court full seldom Truth avails, 
So dnerse in his wilfulness is he. 

XLII. 

Then of the Nightingale did I take note, 
How from her mmost heart a sigh she 

brought, 
And said, Alas! that ever I was born, 
Not one word have I now, I am so forlorn, — 
And with that word, she into tears burst out. 

XLIII. 

Alas ! alas ! my very heart will break, 
Quoth she, to hear this churlish bird thus 

speak 
Of Love, and of his holy services ; 
Now, God of Love ! thou help me in some 

wise, 
That vengeance on this Cuckoo I may wreak 

XLIV. 

And so methcught I started up anon, 
Ami to the brook I ran and got a stone, 
Which at the Cuckoo hardily I cast. 
And lie for dread did fly away full fast ; 
And glad, in sooth, was I when he was gone. 

XLV. 

And as he flew, the Cuckoo, ever and aye. 
Kept crying. " Farewell ! — farewell, Popin- 

jay!"- 
As if in scornful mockery of me \ 
And on 1 hunted him from tree to tree, 
Till lie was far. all out of sight, away. 

XLVI. 

Thcin straightway came the Nightingale to 

nie. 
And said. Forsooth, my friend, do I thank 

thee, 
That thou wort near to rescue me ; and now 
Unto the God of Love 1 make a vow, 
That all this May I will thy songstress be. 

XLVII. 

Well satisfied, I thanked her, and she said, 
By this mishap no longer be dismayed, 
Though thou the Cuckoo heard, ere thou 
heard'st me ; 

* From .1 manuscript in the Rodleiaxi, as are 
also stanzas 44 and 45, winch are necessary to 
complete the sense. 



Yet if I live it shall amended be. 

When next May comes, if I am not afraid. 

XLVIII. 

And one thing will I counsel thee also, 
The Cuckoo trust not thou, nor his Love*s 

saw ; 
All that she said is an outrageous lie. 
Nay, notliing shall me bring thereto, quoth I, 
For Love, and it hath done me mighty woe. 

XLIX. 

Yea, hath it? use, quotli she, this medicine ; 
This May-time, every day before thou dine. 
Go look on the fresh daisy ; then say 1, 
Altiiough for pain thou may'st be like to die. 
Thou wilt be eased, and less wilt droop and 
pine. 

L. 

And mind always that thou be good and 

true, 
And 1 will sing one song, of many new. 
For love of thee, as loud as I may cry. 
And then did she begin tliis song full iiigh, 
" Beshrew all them that are m love untrue." 

LI. 

And soon as she had sung it to the end, 
Now farewell, quoth she, for 1 hence must 

wend ; 
And, God of Love, that can right well and 

may. 
Send unto thee as rnickle joy tliis day 
As ever he to Lover yet did send. 



Thus takes the nightingale her leave of me ; 
\ pray to God witli her always to be, 
And joy of love to send her evermore ; 
And shield us from the Cuckoo and lier lorCj, 
For there is not so false a bird as she. 



Forth then she flew, the gentle Nightingale, 
To all the Birds that lodged within tliat 

dale. 
And gathered each and all into one place ; 
And tiiem besought to hear her doleful cast 
And thus it was that she began her tale. 



The Cuckoo — 'tis not well that I should 

hide 
How she and T did each the other chide, 
.^nd without ceasing, since it was daylight; 
And now I pray yoii all to do me right 
Of that false Bird whom Love can not abivk. 



475 



SELECTJO.YS FROM CHAUCER. 



LV. 

Then spake one Bird, and full assent all 

gave; 
This matter asketh counsel good as grave, 
For birds we are — all here together brought ; 
And, in good sooth, tlie Cuckoo liere is not , 
And tlierefore we a Parliament will have. 



And thereat shall the Eagle be our Lord, 
And other Peers whose names are on record ; 
A summons to the Cuckoo shall be sent, 
And judgment there be given ; or that in- 
tent 
Failing, we f.nally shall make accord. 



And all this shall be done, without a nay, 
The morrow after Saint Valentino's day, 
Under a maple that is well beseen. 
Before the chamber-window of the Queen, 
At Woodstock, on the meadow green and 

gay 

LVIII. 

She thanked them ; and then her leave she 

took, 
And Hew into a hawthorn by that brook ; 
And there she sate and sung — upon that 

tree — 
'* For term of life Love shall have hold of 

me " — 
So hjiidly, tliat I with that song awoke. 

Unlearned Book and rude, as well I know, 
For beauty thou iiast none, nor eloquence, 
Who did on thee the hardiness bestow 
To appear before my Lady? but a sense 
Thou surely hast of her benevolence, 
Whereof her hourly bearing proof doth give ; 
For of all good she is the best alive. 

Alas, poor Book I for thy unworthiness, 
To show to her some pleasant meanings 

writ 
In winning words, since through her genti- 

less. 
Thee she accepts as for her service fit ! 
Oh ! it repents me 1 have neither wit 
Nor leisure unto thee more worth to give ; 
For of all good she is the best alive. 

Beseech her meekly with all lowliness, 
'J "hough I be far from her I reverence. 
To think upon my truth and steadfastness, 
Arid to abridge my sorrow's violence, 



Caused by the wish, as knows your sapience, 
She of her liking proof to me would give ; 
For of all good she is the best alive. 

l'envov. 
Pleasure's Aurora, day of gladsomeness I 
Luna by night, witii heavenly inlluence 
Illumined! root of beauty and goodnesse, 
Write, and allay, by your beneficaiice. 
My sighs breathed forth in silence, — comfort 

give ! 
Since of all good, you are the best alive. 

EXPLICIT. 



TROILUS AND CRESIDA. 

Next morning Troilus began to clear 

His eyes from sleep, at the first break of day, 

And unto Pandarus, his own Brother dear, 

For love of God, full piteously did say. 

We must the Palace see of Cresida ; 

For since we yet may have no otlier feast. 

Let us behold her Palace at the least ! 

And therewithal to cover his intent 
A cause he found into the Town to go. 
And tliey right forth to Cresid's Palace went, 
But, Lord, the simple Troihis was woe, 
Him thought his sorrowful heart would break 

in two ; 
For when he saw her doors fast bolted all, 
Well nigii for sorrow down he 'gan to fall 

Therewith when this true Lover 'gan behold 
How shut was every window of the place. 
Like frost he thouglit his heart was icy cold ■ 
For which, with changed, pale, and deadly 

face. 
Without word uttered, forth he 'gan to pace » 
And on his purpose bent so fast to ride 
That no wight his continuance espied. 
Then said he thus, — O Palace desolate ! 
O house of houses, once so richly dight ! 
O Palace empty and disconsolate ! 
Thou lamp of which extinguished is the 

light; 
O Palace whilom day tliifit now art night, 
Thou ought'st to fall and I to die , since she 
Is gone who held us both in sovereignty. 

O, of all houses once the crownM boast ? 
Palace illumined with the sun of bliss • 
O ring of which the ruby now is lost, 
() cause of woe, that cause has Ijeen of bliss : 
Yet, since 1 may no better, would I kiss 
Thy cold doors ; but I dare not for this rout ; 
Farewell, thou shrine of which the Saint is 
out ! 



SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER. 



479 



Tlierev/ith he cast on Pandarus an eye, j 

Witli changed face, and piteous to behold ; | 
And wlien he might his time aiiglit espy, 
Aye as he rode, to Pandarus he told 
B.oth his new sorrow and his joys of old. 
So piteoiisly, and with so dead a hue. 
That every wight might on his sorrow rue. 

Forth from tlie spot he rideth up and down, 
And every tiling to his rememberance 
Came as he rode by places of the town 
Where he had left such perfect pleasure 

once. 
I,o, yonder saw I mine own Lady dance, 
And in that Temple she with her bright 

eyes. 
My Lady dear, first bound me captive-wise, 

And yonder with joy-smitten heart have I 
Heard my own Cresid's laugh ; and once at 

play 
I yonder saw her eke full blissfully ; 
And yonder once she unto me 'gan say — 
Now, my sweet Troilus, love me well, I 

pray ! 
And there so graciously did me behold, 
That hers unto tlie death my heart I hold. 

And at the corner of that self-same house 
Heard I my most beloved Lady dear, 
So womanly, with voice meloditus 
Singing so well, so goodly, and so clear, 
That in mv soul nietiiinks I yet do iiear 
The blissful sound : and in that very place 
My Lady first me took unto her grace. 

blissful God of Love ! then thus he cried. 
When 1 the process have in memory 

Mow thou hast wearied me on every side. 
Men thence a book might make, a history ; 
Wlnt need to seek a conquest over me, 
Since I am wholly at thy will ? what joy 

1 last thou thy own liege subjects to destroy '' 

Dread Lord ! so fearful when provoked, 

thine ire ' 

Well liast thou wreaked on me by pain and 

grief ; 1 

Now mercy. Lord ! thou know'st well I j 
desire i 

Thy grace above all pleasures first and chief ; | 
And live and die I will in thy belief : 
For which I ask for guerdon but one boon, ! 

That Cresida again thou send me soon. ' 

j 

Constrain her heart as quickly to retum I 

As thou dost mine with longing her to see, ! 

Then know I well that she wo,:ld not so j 

jouru. I 



Now, blissful Lord, so cruel do not be 
Unto the blood of Troy, I pray of thee, 
-A.s Juno was unto the Theban Llood, 
From whence to Thebes came griefs in multi- 
tude 

And after this he to the gate did go 
Whence Cresid rode, as if in haste she was ; 
And up and down there went, and to and 

fro. 
And to himself lull oft he said, alas ! 
From hence my hope and solace forth did 

pass. 

would tlie blissful God now for his joy, 

1 might see her again coming to Troy ! 

And up to yonderhill was I her guide ; 
Alas, and there 1 took of her my leave ; 
Yonder I saw her to hti Father ride, 
For very grief of which my heart shall 

cleave ; — 
And hither home I came when it was eve; 
And here I dwell an outcast from all joy, 
And shall, unless 1 see her soon in Troy. 

And of himself did he imagine oft 

That he was blighted, pale, and waxen less 

Than he was wont ; and that in wliispers 

soft 
M;-n said, what may it be, can no one guess 
Wliy Troilus hath all this heaviness .'' 
.Ml which he of himself Cf)nceited wholly 
Out of his weakness and his melancholy. 

Another time he took into his head 

That every wight, who in the way passed by. 

Had of him ruth, and fancied that they ;;;i,d, 

I am right sorry 'I'roihis will die : 

And thus a day or two drove wearily ; 

As ye have heard ; such life 'gan he to lead 

As one tha*^ standeth betwixt hope and diead. 

For which it pleased him in Iws songs to 

show 
The occasion of his woe, as best he mirht ; 
.And made a fitting sonr', of words but lew, 
Somewliat his woeful heart to make more 

light ; 
And when he was removed from all men's 

sight. 
With a soft voice, he of his Lady dear, 
That absent was, 'gan sing as ye may hear. 

O star, of which I have lost all the light, 
With a sore heart well ought 1 to bewail, 
That ever dark in torment, night by night. 
Toward my death with wind I steer and sail ; 
For which upon the tenth night if thou fail 



480 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF OLD AGE. 



With thy briglit beams to guide me but one 

hour, 
My ship and me Cliarybdis will devour. 

As soon as he this song had thus sung 

through, 
He fell again into his sorrows old ; 
And every night, as was his wont to do, 
Troilus stood the bright moon to behold ; 
And all his trouble to the moon he told, 
And said ; 1 wis, when thou art horn'd 

anew, 
I shall be glad if all the world be true. 

Thy h.orns were old as now upon that mor- 
row, 

When hence did journey my bright Lady 
dear, 

That cause is of my torment and my sorrow ; 

For which, oh, gentle Luna, bright and clear, 

For love of God. run fast above thy sphere ; 

For when thy horns begin once more to 
spring, 

Then shall she come that with her bliss may 
bring. 

The day is more, and longer every night 
Than they were wont to be — for he thought 

so; 
And that the sun did take his course not 

right, 
By longer way than he was wont to go : 
And said, I am in constant dread 1 tro 



That Phaeton his son is yet alive, 

His too fond father's car amiss to driy*. 

Upon the walls fast also would he walk, 
To the end that he the Grecian host mi^ht 

see ; 
And ever thus he to himself would talk .— 
Lo ! yonder is my own bright Lady free ; 
Or yonder is it ttiat the tents must be ; 
And thence does come this air which is s< 

sweet 
That in my soul I feel the joy of it. 

And certainly this wind, that more and 

more 
By moments thus increaseth in my face, 
Is of my Lady's sighs heavy and sore ; 
I prove it thus ; for in no other space 
Of all this town, save only in this place. 
Feel I a wind tliat soundeth so like pain. 
It saith, Alas, whv severed are we twain ? 
A weary while m pain he tosseth thus. 
Till fully past and gone was the ninth 

night ; 
And ever at his side stood Pandarus, 
Who busily made use of all his might 
To comfort him, and make his heart more 

hght ; 
Giving liim always hope, that she the mor- 
row 
Of the tenth day will come, and end his sor- 
row. 



POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF OLD AGE. 



THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. 

Tlie class of Beggars to which the Old Man 
here described belongs will probably soon 
be extinct. It consisted of poor, and mostly 
old and infirm persons, who confined them- 
selves to a stated round in their neighbo;- 
hood. and had certain fixed days, on which, 
at different houses, they regularly received 
alms^ sometimes in money, but mostly in 
provisions. 

I SAW an aged Beggar in my walk ; 
And he was seated, by the highway side, 
On a low structure of rude masonry 
'hiilt at the foot of a huge hill, that they 
V/ho lead their horses down the steep rough 
road 



May thence remount at ease The aged 

Man 
Had placed his staff across the broad smooth 

stone 
That overlays the pile ; and, from a bag 
All white with flour, the dole of villag« 

dames, 
He drew his scraps and fragments, one by 

one ; 
And scanned them with a fixed and seriou'^ 

look 
Of idle computation. In the sun, 
Upon the second step of that small pile, 
Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills, 
He sat, and ate his food in solitude : 
And ever, scattered from his palsied hand. 



POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF OLD AGE. \^\* 



That, still attempting to prevent the waste, 
Was baffled still, the crumbs in little 

showers 
Fell on the ground ; and the small mountain 

birds, 
Not venturing yet to peck their destined 

meal, 
Approached within the length of half his 

staff. 

Him from my childhood have I known ; 

and then 
He was so old, he seems not older now ; 
Ho travels on, a solitary Man, 
So helpless in appearance, that for him 
The sauntering Horseman throws not with 

a slack 
And careless hand his alms upon the 

ground. 
But stops,— that he m.ay safely lodge the 

coin 
Within the old Man's hat ; nor quits him so. 
But still, when he has given his horse the 

rein. 
Watched the aged Beggar with a look 
Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends 
The toll-gate, when in summer at her door 
She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees 
The aged Beggar coming, quits her work, 
And lifts the latch for him that he may 

pass. 
The post-boy, when his rattling wheels 

o'ertake 
The aged Beggar in the woody lane, 
Shouts to him from behind ; and, if thus 

warned 
The old man does not change his course, the 

boy 
Turns with less noisy wheels to the road- 
side, 
And passes gently by, without a curse 
Upon his lips, or anger at his heart. 

He travels on, a solitary Man ; 
His age has no companion. On the ground 
His e) es are turned, and, as he moves along, 
They move along the ground ; and, ever- 
more. 
Instead of common and habitual sight 
Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, 
And the blue sky, one little span of earth 
Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day. 
Bow-bent, his eyes forever on the ground, 
He plies his weary journey ; seeing still. 
And seldom knowing that he sees, some 

straw. 
Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one 
track, 



The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left 
Impressed on the white road, — in the same 

line. 
At distance still the same. Poor Traveller I 
His staff trails with him \ scarcely do his 

feet 
Disturb the summer dust ; he is so still 
In look and motion that the cottage curs, 
Ere he has passed the door, will turn away^ 
Weary of baiking at him. Boys and girls, 
The vacant and the busy, maids and youths, 
And urchins newly breeched — all pass him 

by: 
Him even the slow-paced wagon leaves 

behind. 

But deem not this Man useless. — States- 
men ! ye 
Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye 
Who have a broom still ready in your hands 
To rid the world of nuisances ; ye proud, 
Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye con- 
template 
Your talents, power, or wisdom, deem him 

not 
A burthen of the earth ! 'Tis Nature's law 
That none, the meanest of created things, 
Of forms created the most vile and brute, 
The dullest or most noxious, should exist 
Divorced from good — a spirit and pulse of 

good, 
A life and soul, to every mode of being 
Inseparably linked. Then be assured 
That least of all can aught — that ever 

owned 
The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime 
Which man is born to — sink, howe'er dts 

pressed. 
So low as to be scorned without a sin ; 
Without offence to God cast out of view; 
Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower 
Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement 
Worn out and worthless. While from doo/^ 

to door 
This old man creeps, the villagers in him 
Beliold a record which together binds 
Past deeds and offices of charity. 
Else unremembered, and so keeps alive 
The kindly mood in hearts which lapse oi 

years, 
.\nd that half-wisdom half-experience givcFn. 
Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign 
To selfishness and cold oblivious cares. 
Among the farms and solitary huts, 
Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages, 
Wh.ere'er the aged Beggar takes his round 
The mild necessity of use compels 



4? -2 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF OLD AGE, 



To acts of love.- and habit docs the work ! 
01 reason ; yet prepares that atter-joy I 

VVhicli reason cherishes. And tliiis the ; 



soul. 



By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued, I 
Doth find herself insensibly disposed j 

To virtue and true goodness. j 

Some there are, 
By their good works exalted, lofty minds 
And meditative, authors of delight 
And happiness, which to the end of time 
Will li.e, and spread, and kindle : even such 

minds 
In childhood, from this solitary Being, 
Or from like wanderer, haply have received 
(A thing more precious far than all that 

books 
Or the solicitudes of love can do!) 
That first mild touch of sympathy and 

thought, 
In which they found their kindred with a 

world 
Where want and sorrow were. The easy 

man 
Who sits at his own door,- — and, like the 

pear 
That overhangs his head from the green 

wall, 
I<"ceds in the sunshine ; the robust and 

young. 
The prosperous and unthinking, they wb.o 

live 
Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove 
Of their own kindred ; — all behold in him 
A silent monitor, whicli on their minds 
Must needs impress a transitory thought 
Of sclf-congratulation, to the heart 
Of each recalling his peculiar boons. 
His charters and exemptions ; and, per- 

cp.ance. 
Though he to no one give the fortitude 
And circumspection needful to preserve 
His present blessings, and to husband up 
The respite of the season, he, at least. 
And 'tis no vulgar service, makes them felt. 

Yet further. Many, I believe, there 

are 
Who live a life of virtuous decency, 
Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel 
No self-reproach ; who of tlie moral law 
Established in the land where they abide 
Are strict observers; and not negligent 
In acts of love to those with whom they 

dwell, 
Their kindred, and the children of their 

blood. 



Praise be to such, and to their slumberi 

peace ! 
— lUitof the poor man ask, the abject poor ; 
Go, and demand of him, if there be here 
In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, 
And these inevitable charities. 
Wherewith to satisfy tiie human soul ? 
No — man is dear to man ; the poorest poor 
I.ong for some moments in a v.-caiy life 
When they can know and feel that they have 

been, 
Themselves, the fathers nnd the dcalcrs-out 
Of some small blessings ; have been kind to 

such 
As needed kindness, ff)r this single cause, 
Tliat we have all of us one liuman heart. 
— Such pleasure is to one kind Being known, 
My neighbor, when with punctual care, each 

week 
Di;lv as Friday comes, though pressed her- 
self 
By her own wants, she from her store of 

meal 
Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip 
Of this old Mendicant, and from her door 
Returning with exhilarated heart, 
Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in 

heaven. 

Then let him pass, a blessing on his head I 
And while in that vast solitude to which 
Tlie tide of things has borne him, he ap- 
pears 
To breathe and live but for himself alone, 
Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about 
The good which the beidgnant law of Hea- 
ven 
Has hung around him : and, while life is 

his, ^ 
Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers 
To tender oiifices and pensive thoughts. 
— Then let him pass, a blessing on his head I 
And, long as he can wander, let him breathe 
The freshness of the valleys ; let his blood 
Struggle with frosty air and winter snows ; 
And let the chartered wind that sweeps the 

heath 
Beat his gray locks against his withered 

face. 
Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousncss 
Gives the last human interest to his heart. 
May never House, misnamed ot Industry. 
Make him a captive !— for that pent-up 

din, 
Those life-consuming sounds that clog the 

air, 
Be his iLc natural silence uf old age 1 



POEMS REFERRIIVG TO THE PERIOD OF OLD AGE. ^83 



Let h'.m be free of mountain solitudes ; 
Arxd liave around him, wliether heard or not, 
The pleasant melody of woodland birds. 
Few arc his pleasures : if his eyes have now 
r.cen doomed so loiicj to settle upon earth 
Tlutt not without some effort they behold 
The countenance of tlic horizontal sun, 
Rising Of setting, let the light at least 
Find a free entrance io their languid orbs. 
And let him, where and when he will, sit 

down 
Beneath the trees, or on a grassy bank 
Of highwayside, and with the little birds 
Share his chance-gathered meal ; and, finally, 
As in the eye of Nature he has lived, 
i)0 in the eye of Nature let him die | 
1798. 



THE FARMER OF TILSBURV VALE. 

'Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely rehnrrl, 
The squeamish in taste, and the narrow ot 

mind. 
And the small critique wielding his delicate 

pen, 
That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old 

men. 

He dwells in the centre of London's wide 

Town , 
His staff is a scejitre— his gray ha.rs a 

crown ; 
And iiis bright ey^s look brighter, set off by 

the streak 
Of the unfaded rose that still blooms on his 

cheek, 

'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn, — 

'mid the joy 
Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when 

a boy : 
That countenance there fashioned, which, 

spite of a stain 
That his life hath received, to the last will 

remain. 

A Farmer he was; and his house far and 

near 
Was the boast of the country for excellent 

cheer : 
How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsburv 

Vale 
Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he d.alt 

his mild ^Iq 1 



Vet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin, 

Ills liclds seemed to know what their Mas- 
ter was doing ; 

.And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, 
and lea. 

All caught the infection— as generous as he 

Vet Adam prized little the feast and the 

bowl — 
The fields better suited the ease of liissoul 
He strayed througii the lields like an mdo 

lent wigiit, 
The quiet of Nature was Adam's delight. 

For Adam was simple in tliought ; and the 

poor. 
Familiar with him, made an inn of his door . 
He gave them the best that he had ; or, to 

say 
What less may mislead you, they took it 

away. 

Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his 
farm : 

The Genius of plenty preserved him from 
harm . 

At length, what to most is a season of sor- 
row. 

His means are run out,— he must beg, or 
must borrow. 

To the neighbors he went,— all were free 

with their money ; 
For his hive had so long been replenished 

with honey 
That they dreamt not of dearth ;— He nn- 

tinned his rounds, 
Knocked here— and knocked there, pounds 

still adding to pounds. 

He paid what he could with his ill-gotten 

pdf, 
.And something, it might be, reserved for 

himself. 
Then (what is too true) without hinting a 

word, 
Turned his back on thecountry— and off like 

a b;rd. 

You lift up your eyes !— but I guess that you 

frame 
A judgment too harsh of the sin and the 

shame; 
In him it was scarcely a business of art, 
For this he did all in the ease of his heart. 

To London — a sad emigration I ween — 
With his gray hairs he went from the brook 
and the green ; 



4S4 POEMS REFERRING TO TfJE PER TOD OF OLD AGE. 



And tliere, witli small wealth l)ut his legs 

and his hands, 
As lonely he stood as a crow on the sands. 

All trades, as need was, did old Adam 

assume, — 
Served as stable-boy, eirand-boy, porter, and 

groom ; 
But nature is gracious, necessity kind, 
And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in 

his mind. 

He seems ten birthdays younger, is green 

and is stout ; 
Twice as fast as before does his blood n;n 

about ; 
You would say that each hair of his beard 

was alive, 
And lus fingers are busy as bees in a hive. 

For he's not like an Old Man that leisurely 

goes 
About work that he knows, in a track that 

he knows ; 
r.ut often his mind is compelled to demur. 
And you guess that the more then his body 

nnist stir. 



Old Adam will smile at the pains that have 
made 

Poor vvi liter look fine in such strange mas- 
querade. 

'Mid coaches and chariots, a wagon of straw, 
Like a magnet, the heart of Old Adam can 

draw , 
With a thousand soft pictures his memory 

will teem, 
And his hearing is touched with the soundii 

of a dream. 

Up the Hayniarkct hill he oft whistles his 

way, 
Thrusts his hands in a wagon, and smells 

at the hay ; 
He thinks of the fields he so often hath 

mown. 
And is happy as if the rich freight were his 

own. 

But chiefly to Smithfield he loves to repair, — 

If you pass by at morning, you'll meet with 
him there. 

The breath of the cows you may see him in- 
hale, 

And h:s heart all the while is in Tilsburv 
Vale. 



Ill the throng of the tow'n like a stranger is 

he, 
Like one whose own country's far over the | Now farewell, O'.J Adam! when low thou 

I art laid, 



And Nature, while through the great city he 
hies. 

Full ten times a day takes his heart by sur- 
prise. 

This gives him the fancy of one that is 

young. 
More of soul in his face than of words on his 

tongue ; 
Like a maiden of twenty he trembles and 

sighs. 
And tears of fifteen will come into his eyes. 

What's a tempest to him, or the dry parch- 
ing heats ? 

Vet he watches the clouds that pass over the 
streets ; 

With a look of such earnestness often will 
stand, 

You might think he'd twelve reapers at work 
in the Strand. 

Where proud Covent-gardcn in desolate 

hours 
Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits 

»nd lier flowers, 



May one blade of grass spring up over thy 

head ; 
And I hope that thy grave, wheresoever it 

be, 
Will hear the winds sigh through the leaves 

of a tree. 
1S03. 



THE SMALL CELANDINE. 

There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine, 
That shrinks, like many more, from cold and 

rain ; 
And, the first moment that the sun may 

shine, 
Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again ! 

When hailstones have been falling, swarm 

on swarm, 
Or blasts the green field and the trees dis^ 

trest, 
Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm, 
In close self-shelter, iike a thing at rest- 



POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF OLD AGE. 485 



But lately, one rough day, this Flower I 

passed 
And recognized it, though an altered form, 
Now standing forth an offering to the blast, 
And buffeted at wiil by rain and storm. 

I stopped, and said with inly-mr.ttered 
voice, * 

" It doth not love the shower, nor seek the 
cold; 

This neither is its courage nor its choice, 

But its necessity m being old. 

The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the 

dew ; 
It cannot help itself in its decay ; 
Stiff in its members, withered, changed of 

hue.'' 
And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was 

gray. 

To be a Prodigal's Favorite — then, vvo?se 

truth, 
A Miser's Pensioner — behold uiir lot ! 
O iMan, that from thy lair and shining 

youth 
Age niigiit but take the things Youth needed 

not 1 
1S04. 



IV- 
THE TWO THIEVES; 

OR, 
THE LAST STAGE OF AVARICE. 

O NOW that the genius of Bewick were 

mine, 
.^nd tlie skill which he learned on the banks 

of the Tyne, 
Then the Muses might deal with me just as 

they cliose. 
For I'd take my last leave both of verse and 

of prose. 

What feats would I work with my magical 
hand ! 

Book-learning and books should be banished 
the land : 

And, for hunger and thirst and such trou- 
blesome calls, 

Every ale-house sliould then have a feast on 
its walls. 

The traveller would hang his wet clothes on 

a chair ; 
Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw 

would he 



For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and 

his sheaves. 
Oh, what would they be to my tale of two 

Thieves 1 

The One, yet unbreeched, is not three birth 
days old. 

His (Jrandsire that age more than thirty 
times told ; 

There are ninety good seasons of fair and 
foul weather 

Between them, and both go a pilfering to- 
gether. 

With chips is the carpenter strewing his 

floor? 
Is a cart-load of turf at an old woman's 

door t 
Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will 

slide ! 
And his Grandson's as busy at work by his 



Old Daniel begins ; he stops short — and his 

eye. 
Through the lost look of dotage, is cunnin;; 

and sly : 
'Tis a look which at this time is hardly his 

own. 
But td's a plain tale of the days that are 

flow 11. 

He once had a heart which was moved by 
the wires 

Of manifold pleasures and many desires : 

And what if he cherished ius purse.? 'Twas 
no more 

Than treading a path trod by thousands be- 
fore. 

'Twas a path trod by thousands ; but Darnel 

is one 
Who went something farther than others 

have gone. 
And now with old Daniel you see how it 

fares : 
You see to what end he has brought his 

gray hairs. 

The pair sally forth hand in hand : ere the 

sun 
Has peered o'er the beeches, their work is 

begun : 
And yet. into whatever sin they may fall^ 
This child but half knows it, and that no> 

at all. 



486 



EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES, 



Tiiey Inint tl; rough the streets with dehber- 

ate tread, 
And each, in his turn, becomes leader or 

led ; 
And, wherever tliey carry their plots and 

their wiles, 
Every face in the village is dimpled with 

smiles. 

Neither checked by the rich nor the needy 

tliey loani ; 
For the gray-headed Sire has a daughter at 

home, [done ; 

Who will gladly repair all the damage that's 
And three, were it asked, would be rendered 

for one. 

Old Man ! who so oft I with pity have 

eyed, 
I love thee, and love the sweet Boy at thy 

side: 
Long yet may'st thou live ! for a teacher we 

see 
That lifts up the veil of our nature in thea. 
Iboo. 



ANIMAL 



TRANQUILLITY 
DECAY. 



ANR 



The little hedgerow birds, 
That peck along the load, regard him not 
He travels on, and in his face, his step, 
His gait, his one expression : every limb. 
His look and bending figure, all bespeak 
A man who does not move with pain, but 

moves 
With tliought. — He is insensibly subdued 
To settled quiet : he is one by whom 
All effort seems forgotten ; one to whom 
Long ])atience hath such n\ild composure 

given 
That patience now doth seem a thing of 

which 
He hath no need. He is by nature led 
To jieace so perfect that the yourg behold 
Witli envy what the Old Man liavdly leeb. 
179S. 



EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 



EPITAPHS 

TRANSLATKD FKOM CHIABRERA. 



Weep not, beloved Friends ! nor let the air 
For me with sighs be troubled. Not from 

life 
Have I been taken; this is genuine life 
And this alone— the life which now I live 
In peace eternal ; where desire and joy 
Together move in fellowship without end. — 
Francesco Ceni willed that, after death, 
His tombstone thus sliould speak for liim. 

And surely 
Small cause tlicre is for that fond wish of 

ours 
Long to continue in this world ; a world 
That keeps not faitii, nor yet can point a 

hope 
To good, wiieroof itself is destitute. 



II. 

Perhaps some needful service of tha 

State 
Drew Trrus from the depth of studious 

bowers, 
And doomed him to contend in faithless 

courts, 
Where gold determines between riglit and 

wrong. 
Yet did at length his loyalty of heart. 
And his pure native genius, lead him back 
To wait upon the bright and gracious 

Muses, 
Whom he had early loved. And not in vain 
Such course he held! Bologna's learned 

schools 
Were gladdened by the Sage's voice, and 

hung 
With fondness on those sweet NestoriioJ 

sUauis. 



EPITAPHS AXD ELEGf AC- PIECES. 



4cl7 



There pleasure crowned his days ; and all 

liis tlioiiglits 
A roseate fragrance breathed.* — O human 

hfe, 
T]ia_t never art secureirom dolorous change ! 
Behold a high injunction suddenly 
To Arno's side hath brought him, and he 

charmed 
A Tuscan audience; but full soon was 

called 
To the perpetual silence of the grave. 
Mourn, Italy, the loss of him who stood 
A Champion steadfast and mvmcible, 
To quell the "age of literary War 1 

HI. 

O THOU who movest onward with ? nund 
Intent upon thy way, pause, though in ! 

haste ! ! 

'Twill be no fruitless moment. T was born 
Within S.ivona's walls, of gentle blood. 
On Tiber's banks my youth was dedicate 
To sacred studies ; and the Roman Shep- 
herd 
Gave to my charge Urbino's numerous 

flock 
Wc-ll did I watch, much labored, nor had 

power 
To escape from many and strange indigni 

ties , 
Was smitten by the great cnes of the 

world. 
But. did not fall; for Virtue braves all 

shocks, 
Upon hrrself resting immovably 
Me did a kindlier fortune then invite 
To serve Uie glorious Henry, King of 

France, 
And in his hands I saw a high reward 
Stretched out for my acceptance, — but 

Death came. 
Now, R.;ader, learn from this mv fate, how 

false, 
How treacherous to her promise, is the 

world • 
And trust in God -to whose eternal doom 
Must bend the sceptred Potentates of 

earth 



There never breathed a man who, when his 

life 
Was closing, might not of that life relate 



* Ivi vivea Riocondo e \ suoi pensieri 

Erano tutti rose. 
The Translator had not skill to come nearer 
to his original. 



Toils long and hard. — The warrior will rC" 

port 
Of wounds, and bright swords flashing in the 

field, 
And blast of trumpets. He who hath been 

doomed 
To bow his forehead in the courts of kings 
Will tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate, 
Envy and lieart-inquietude, derived 
From intricate cabals of treacherous friends 
1, wiio on shipboard lived from earliest 

youth. 
Could represent the countenance horrible 
Of the vexed waters, and the indignant 

rage 
Of Auster and Bootes. Fifty years 
Over the well-steerei galleys did 1 rule : — 
Fiom huge Pelorus to tiie Atlantic pillars, 
Rises no mountain to mine eyes unknown ; 
And tiie broad gulfs I traversed oft and oft. 
Of every cloud wliich in the heavens might 

stir 
I knew the force ; and hence the rough sea's 

pride 
Availed not to my Vessel's overthrow. 
What noble pomp and frequent have not I 
On regal decks beheld ! yet in the end 
1 learned that one poor moment can suffice 
To equalize the lefty and tlie low. 
We sail the sea of life — a Cahn One findi. 
And One a Tempest — and, the voyage o'er, 
Death is the quiet haven of us all. 
If more of my condition ye would know, 
Savona was my birth-place, and I sprang 
Of noble parents • seventy years and three 
Lived 1 — then yielded to a slow disease. 



True is it that Ambrosio Salinero 

With an untoward fate was long involved 

In odious litigation ; and full long, 

Fate harder still ! had he to endure assaults 

Of racking malady. And true it is 

That not tlic less a frank courageous heart 

And buoyant spirit triumplied over pain . 

And he was strong to follow in the steps 

Of the fair Muses. Not a covert path 

Leads to the dear Parnassian forest's shade, 

That might from him be hidden ; not a 

track 
Mounts to pellucid Hippocrene, but h? 
Had traced its windings. — This Savona 

knows. 
Yet no sepulchral honors to her Son 
She paid, for in our age the heart is ruled 
Only bv gold. And now a simple stone 
Inscribed with this memorial here is raised 



EPlTAmS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 



By liis bereft, his lonely, Chiabrera. 
Think not, O Passenger I who read'st the 

lines, 
That an exceeding love hath dazzled me ; 
No — he was One whose memory ought to 

spread 
Where'er Permessus bears an honored name, 
A.nd live as long as its pure stream shall 

flow 

VI. 

Destined to war from very infancy 
Was I, Roberto Dati, and I took 
In Malta tlie white symbol of the Cross ; 
Nor in Jife's vigorous season did I shun 
Hazard or toil ; among the sands was seen 
Of Libya ; and not seldom, on the banks 
Of wide Hungarian Danube, 'twas my lot 
To hear the sanguinary trumpet sounded. 
So lived I, and repined not at such fate . 
This only grieves me, for it seems a wrong, 
That stripped of arms I to my end am 

brought 
On the soft down of my paternal home 
Yet haply Arno shall be spared all cause 
To blush for me. Thou, loiter not nor halt 
In thy appointed way, and bear in mind 
How fleeting and how frail is human life! 



O Flower of all that springs from gentle 

blood, 
And all tliat generous nurture breeds to 

make 
Youth amiable ; O friend so true of soul, 
To fair Aglaia ; by what envy moved, 
Lelius ! has death cut short thy brilliant 

day 
In its sweet opening ? and what dire mishap 
Has from Savona tor.n her best delight ? 
For thee she mourns, nor e'er will cease to 

mourn ; 
And, should the outpourings of her eyes 

suffice not 
For her heart's grief, she will entreat Sebeto 
Not to withhold his bounteous aid, Sebeto 
VVlio saw thee, on his margin, yield to death, 
In tlie chaste arms of thy beloved Love ! 
What profit riches? what does youth avail ? 
Dust arc our hopes ; — I, weeping bitterly, 
Penned these sad lines, nor can forbear to 

pray 
That every gentle Spirit hither led 
May read them not without some bitter 

tears. 

vui 
Not without heavy grief of heart diil He 
On whom the duty fell (for at that tuue 



The father sojourned in a distant land) 
Deposit in the hollow of this tomb 
A brother's Child, most tenderly beloved ! 
Francesco was the name the Youth had 

borne, 
PozzoroxNELLi his illustrious house ; 
And, when beneath this stone the Corse was 

laid, 
The eyes of all Savona streamed with tears. 
Alas!' the twentieth April of his life 
Had scarcely flowered : and at this early 

time, 
By genuine virtue he inspired a hope 
That greatly cheered his country : to his kin 
He promised comfort ; and the flattering 

thoughts 
His friends had in their fondness enter- 
tained 
He suffered not to languish or decay. 
Now is there not good reason to break forth 
Into a passionate lament? — O .'-'oul ! 
Short while a Pilgrim in our qether woild. 
Do thou enjoy the calm empyreal air : 
And round this earthly tomb let roses rise, 
And. everlasting spring ! in memory 
Of that delightful fragrance which was once 
From thy mild manners quietly exhaled. 



Pause, courteous Spirit ! — Balbi suppli- 
cates 
That Tliou, with no reluctant voice, for him 
Here laid in mortal darkness, wouldst prefer 
A prayer to the Redeemer of tlje world. 
This to the dead by sacred right belongs ; 
AH else is nothing. — Did occasion suit 
To tell his worth, the marble of this tomb 
Would ill suffice : for Plato's lore sublime. 
And all the wisdom of the Stagyrite, 
Enriched and beautified his studious mind : 
With Archimedes also he conversed 
As with a chosen friend ; nor did he leave 
Those laureate wreaths ungaihered which 

the Nymphs 
Twine near their loved Permessus. — 

Finally, 
Himself above each lower thought uplifting. 
His ears he closed to listen to the songs 
Which Sion's Kings did consecrate of old 
And his Permessus found on Lebanon. 
A blessed Man ! who of protracted days 
Made not. as thousands do, a vulgar sleep r 
But truly did He live his life. Urbino, 
Take pride in him ! — Passenger, fareweJ*: 



EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 



489 



By a blest Husband guided, Mary came 
From nearest kindred, Vernon her new 

name ; 
She came, though meek of soul, in seemly 

pride 
Of happiness and hope, a youthful Bride. 
O dread reverse ! if aught be so, which 

proves 
That God will chasten whom he dearly 

loves. 
Faith bore her up through pains in mercy 

given, 
And troubles that were each a step to 

Heaven : 
Tvvo Babes were laid in earth before she 

died ; 
A third now slumbers at the Mother's side ; 
its Sister-twin survives, whose smiles afford 
A trembling solace to her widowed Lord. 
Reader ! if to tliy bosom cling the pain 
Of recent sorrow combated in vain ; 
Or if thy cherished grief have failed to 

thwart 
Time still intent on his insidious part, 
Lulling the mourner's best good thoughts 

asleep, 
Pilfering regrets we would, but cannot, keep ; 
Bear with Him — judge H'nn gently who 

makes known 
His bitter loss by this memorial Stone ; 
And pray that in his faithful breast the 

grace 
Of resignation find a hallowed place 



Six months to six years added he remained 
Upon tliis sinful earth, by sin unstained: 
O blessed Lord ! whose mercy then removed 
A Child whom every eye that looked on 

loved ; 
Support us, teach us calmly to resign 
What we possessed, and now is wholly 

thine ! 

CENOTAPH. 

In affectionate remembrance of Frances Far- ' 
nior, whose remains are deposited in tlie Cliurch I 
cif Claines, near Worcester, tills stone is erect 
ed by her sister, Dame Marga 
George Beaumont, Bart., wb.o 
tlian the love of a brother for the deceased 
commen Isthis memorial to the care of hislieirs 
and successors in the possession of this place. 
By vain affections unenthralled. 
Though resolute when duty called 



To meet the world's broad eye, 
Pure as the holiest cloistered nun 
'I'hat ever feared the tempting sun, 
Did Fermor live and die. 

This Tablet, hallowed by her name, 
One heart-relieving tear may claim ;. 
But if tiie pensive [;loom 
Of fond regret be still thy choice. 
Exalt the spirit, hear the voice 
Of Jesus from lier t(>mb! 

I AM THE WAV, THE TRUTH, ANI, Tl 
LIFE." 



IV 

EPITAPH 



iret, wife of Sir 
feeling not less 



IN THE CHAPEL-YARD OF LANGDALE. 
WESTMORELAND. 

By playful smiles, (alas ! too oft 

A sad heart's sunshine) by a soft 

.And gentle nature, and a free 

Yet modest hand of chanty. 

Through life was Owen Lloyd endeareO 

To young and old ; and how revered 

Had been that pious spirit, a tide 

Of humble mourners testified. 

When, after pains dispensed to prove 

The measure of God's cliastening love, 

Here, brought from far, his corse fcymd 

rest, — 
Fulfilment of his own request ;— 
Urged less for tliis Yew's shade, tliough he 
Planted with such fond hope the tree. 
Less for the love of stream and rock, 
Dear as they were, than that his Flo:k, 
When they no more tlieir Paslor's v nee 
Could hear to guide them in their chi-.c 
Through good and evil, help might have, 
Admonished, from his silent grave, 
Of righteousness, of sins forgiven, 
For peace on earth and bliss in heaven. 



ADDRESS TO THE SCHOL.ARS OF 
THE VILLAGE SCHOOL OF . 

1798. 

I come, ye little noisy Crew, 
Not long your pastime to prevent : 
I heard the blessing which to you 
Our common F'riend anc' Father sent 



♦90 



EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 



I kissed his cheek before he died ; 
And when his breath was fled, 
I raised, while kneeling by his side, 
His hand -—it dropped Hke lead. 
Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all 
That can be done, will never fall 
Like this till they are dead. 
By ni'^dit or day, blow foul or fair, 
Ne'er will the best of all your train 
Play with the locks of his white hair 
Or stand between his knees again. 

Here did he sit confined for hours ; 
But he could see the woods and plains, 
Could hear the wind and mark the showers 
Come streamino; down the streaming panes. 
Now stretched beneath his grass-green 

mound 
He rests a prisoner of the ground. 
He loved the breathing air. 
He loved the sun, but if it rise 
Or set, to him where now he lies, 
Brings not a moment's care. 
Alas ! what idle words ; but take 
The Dirge which for our Master's sake 
And yours, love prompted me to make 
Tlie rhymes so homely in attire 
With learned ears may ill agree, 
But chanted by your Orphan Quire 
Will make a touching melody. 



Mouni, Shepherd, near thy old gray stone ; 
Thou Angler, by the silent flood ; 
A r.d mourn when thou art all alone. 
Thou Woodman, in the distant wood ! 

Tiiou one blind Sailor, rich in joy 
Though hiind, thy tunes in sadness hum; 
An I m )urp., thou poor half-witted Boy 
Bom de.if, and hvmg deaf and dumb 

'^hou droopuii;; sick Man, bless the Guide 
Who checked or turned thy headstrong 

youth, 
A s he before had sanctified 
Thy infancy with heavenly truth. 

Ye Striplings, light of heart and gay. 

Bold settlers on some foreign shore, 

Give, when your thoughts are turned this 

way, 
A sigh to him whom we deplore. 

For us who here in funeral strain 
With one accord our voices raise, 
Let sorrow overcliarged witli pain 
Be lost m thankfulness and praise. 



And when our hearts shall feel a sting 
From ill we meet or good we miss, 
May touches of his memory bring 
Fond healing, like a mother's kiss. 

BY THE SIDE OF THE GRAVE SOME YEAR;j 
AFTER. 

Long time his pulse hath ceased to beat ; 
But benefits, his gift, we trace — 
Expressed in e\ ery eye we meet 
Round this dear Vale, his native plrxe. 

To stately Hall and Cottage rude 
Flowed from his life what still they hold • 
\ Light pleasures, every day, renewed, 
And blessings half a century old. 

Oh true of heart, of spirit gay, 
Thy faults, where not already gone 
From memory, prolong their stay 
For charity's sweet sake alone. 

Such solace find we for our loss ; 
And what beyond this thought we crave 
Comes in the promise from the Cross, 
Shining upon thy happy grave.* 



ELEGIAC STANZAS, 

SUGGESTED V.\ A PICTURE OF PEEI E 
I { ASTLE, IN A STORM, PAINTED BY SIR 
I GEORGE BEAUMONT. 

I WAS thy neighbor once, thou rugged 
I Pile ! 

Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of 

thee : 
I saw thee every day ; and all the while 
Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 

I So pure the sky, so quiet was the air ! 

! S(i like, so very like, was day to day ! 

i Whene'er I looked, thy Image still was 

j there ; 

I It trembled, but it never passed away. 

I How perfect was the calm ! it seemed on 

sleep ; 
No mood, which season takes away, or 

brings : 
I could have fancied that the mighty Deep 
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things- 

• See upon the subject of the three foregoing 
pieces the Fountain, &c., &c., page 417, 



EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 



491 



All ! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's 

liand. 
To express what then I saw; and add the 

gleam, 
The lie,ht that never was, on sea or land, 
The consecration, and the Poet's dream ; 

I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile 
Amid a world liow different from this ! 
Heside a sea tliat could not cease to smile ; 
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 

Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure- 

ho'.ise divine 
Of peaceful years ; a chronicle of heaven ; — 
01 all the sunbeams that did ever shme 
The very sweetest had to thee been given, 

A Picture had it been of lasting ease, 
Elysian quiet, without toil or strife ; 
No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, 
Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart. 
Such Picture would I at that time have 

made : 
And seen the soul of truth in every part, 
A steadfast peace that might not be be- 
trayed. 

So once it would have been, — 'tis so no 
more ; 

I have submitted to a new control : 

A power is gone, which nothing can re- 
store ; 

A deep distress hath humanized my Soul. 

Not for a moment could I now behold 
A smiling sea, and be what I have been : 
The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old ; 
This, which I know, 1 speak with mind 
serene. 

Then, Beaumont, Friend ! who would have 
been the Friend, 

if he had lived, of Him whom I deplore, 

This work of thine I blame not, but com- 
mend ; 

This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 

'tis a passionate Work — yet wise and 

well, 
Well chosen is the spirit that is here ; 
That Hulk which labors in the deadly 

swell. 
This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! 

And this huge Castle, standing here sub- 
lime, 

1 lo'/e to see the look with which it braves. 



Cased in the unfeeling armor of old time, 
The lightning, the fierce wind, and tramp. 
ling waves. 

Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone 
Housed in a dream, at distance from the 

Kind ! 
Such happiness, wherever it be known, 
I Is to be pitied ; for 'tis surely blind. 

I But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer, 
I And frequent sights of what is to be borne! 
Such siglits, or worse, as are before me 

here. — 
Not without hope we suffer and wc mourn. 
1805. 

I 

VII. 

TO THE DAISY. 

Sweet Flower ! belike one day to have 
I A place upon thy Poet's grave, 
I I welcome thee once more : 

But He. who was on land, at sea, 

My Brother, too, in loving thee. 

Although he loved more silently, 

Sleeps by his native shore. 

Ah ! hopeful, hopeful was the day 

When to that ship he bent his way. 

To govern and to guide : 

His wish was gained ; a little time 

Would bring him back in manhood's primi 

And free for life, these hills to climb ; 

With all his wants supplied. 

And full of hope day followed day 

While that stout Ship at anchor lay 

Beside the shore? of Wight ; 

The May had then made all things green ;- 

And, floating there, in pomp serene, 

That Ship was goodly to be seen, 

His pride and his delight ! 

Yet then, when called ashore, he sought 
1 The tender peace of rural thouglit*. * 
j In more than happy mood 
I To your abodes, bright daisy Flowers I 
! He then would steal at leisure hours. 

And loved you glittering in your bowers. 

A starry multitude. 

But hark the word ! — the ship is gone \-^ 

Returns from her long course : — anon 

Sets sail : — in season due, 

Once more on English earth thev ^^iand - 

But, when a third time from the land 

They parted, sorrow was at hand 

For Him and for his crew. 



492 



EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 



Ill-fated Vessel !— ghastly shock ! 

—At length delivered from the rock, 

The deep she hatli regained ; 

And through the stormy night they steer ; 

Laboring for life, in hope and fear, 

To reacli a safer shore — how near, 

Yet rvot to be attained I 

" Silence ! '' the brave Commander cried ; 
To that calm word a shriek replied, 
It was a last death-shriek, 
— A few (my suul oft sees that sight) 
Survive upon the tall mast's height ; 
But one dear remnant of the night — 
For \\ ini in vam I seek. 

Six weeks beneath the moving sea 

He lay in slumber quietly ; 

Unforced by wind or wave 

To quit the Ship for which he died, 

(All claims of duty satisfied ;) 

And tlicre they found him at her side ; 

And bore him to the grave. 

Vain service ! yet not vainly done 
For this, if other end were none, 
That He, who had been cast 
Upon a way of life unmeet 
P'or such a gentle Soul and sweet, 
Should find an undisturbed retreat 
Near what he loved, at last — 

That neighborhood of grove and field 

To Him a resting-place should yield, 

A meek man and a brave ! 

The birds shall sing and ocean make 

A mournful murmur for his sake ; 

And Thou, sweet Flower, shalt sleep and 

wake 
Upon his senseless grave. 
1805. 

VIII. 

ELEGIAC VERSES, 

IN ^lEMORV OF MY BROTHER, JOHN 
WORDSWORTH, COMMANUER OK THE 

E. I company's ship the earl of 

ABERGAVENNY, IN WHICH HE PER- 
ISHED BY CALAMITOUS SHIPWRECK, 
KHl!. 6th, 1805. 

Composed near the Mountain track, that leads 
from Giasmere tlnoui'h Griscir'.ie H.iwes, 
wliere it descends towards Patterdale. 
7805. 
I. 
The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo i 
That instant, startled by the shock, 



The Buzzard mounted from the rock 
Deliberate and slow ; 
Lord of tlie air, he took his flight ; 
Oh ! could he on that woeful night 
Have lent liis wing, my Brother dear, 
I'^or one poor moment's space to Thee, 
And all who struggled with the Sea, 
When safety was so near. 



Thus m the weakness of my heart 

1 spoke (but let that pang be still) 

When rising from the rock at will, 

I saw the Bird depart. 

And let me calmly bless the Power 

That meets me in this unknown Flower 

Affecting type of him I mourn ! 

With calmness suffer and believe, 

And grieve, and know that J must grieve, 

Not cheerless, though forlorn. 



Here did wc stop ; and here looked round 

While each into himself descends, 

For that last thought of parting Friends 

That is not to be found. 

Hidden was Grasmere Vale from sight, 

Our home and his, his heart's deUght, 

His quiet heart's selected home. 

But time before him melts away. 

And he hath feeling of a day 

Of blessedness to come. 



Full soon in sorrow did \ weep. 

Taught that the mutual hope was dust, 

In sorrow, but for higher trust. 

How miserably deep I 

All vanished in a single word, 

A breath, a sound, and scarcely heard. 

Sea — Ship — drowned — Shipwreck — so it 

came, 
The meek, the brave, the good, was gone ; 
He who had been our living John 
Was nothing but a name. 



That was indeed a parting ! oh. 

Glad am 1, glad that it is past ; 

For there were some on whom it cast 

Unutterable woe. 

!Uit they as well as I have gains ;— 

From many a humble source, to pains 

Like these, there comes a mild release ; 

Even here I feel it, even this Plant 

is in its beauty ministrant 

To comfort and to peace. 



EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 



493 



VI, 

He would have loved thy modest s^ace, 

Meek Flower ! To Him 1 would liavc said, 

" It grows upon its native bed 

Beside our Parting-place ; 

'I'liere, cleaving to the ground it lies 

With multitude of purple eyes, 

Spangling a cushicn green like moss ; 

But we will see it, joyful tide ! 

Some day, to see it in its pride, 

The mountain will we cross." 



' — Brother and friend, if verse of mine 
Have power to make thy virtues known, 
Here let a Monumental Stone 
Stand — sacred as a Shrine •, 
And to the few who pass this way, 
Traveller or Shepherd, let it say, 
L-ong as these mighty rocks endure, — 
y (Jh do not thou too fondly brood, 
, Although deserving of all good, 
|On any earthly hope, however pure ! * 



LINES 

Composed at Grasmere, during a walk one 
Evening, after a stormy daj', the Author 
having just read u\ a Newspaper that the 
dissolution of Mr. Fox was bouny expected. 

Loud is the Vale I the Voice is up 

VVitli which she speaks when storms are 

gone, 
A mighty unison of streams 
Of ail her Voices, One ! 

Loud is the Vale ; — this inland Depth 
In peace is roaring like the Sea; 
''Yon star upon the mountain-top 
Is listening quietly. 

Sad was I, even to pain dcprest, 
Importunate and heavy load ! 
Tlie Comforter hath found mc here, 
Upon this lonely road ; 

And many thousands now are sad — 
Wait the fulfilment of their fear ; 
For he must die who is their stay, 
Tiieir glory disappear. 

* The plant ailiided to is the Moss Campion 
(Siiene acaulis, of l^innaeus). 

See among the Poems on the "Naming of 
Places," No. vi. 



A Power is passing from the earth 
To breathless Nature's dark abyss ; 
But when the great and good depart 
What is it more than this — 

That Man, who is from God sent forth, 
Both yet again to God return ? — 
Such ebb and flow must ever be, 
Then wherefore should we mourn ? 
iSo6. 



X. 

INVOCATION TO THE EARTH 

FEBRUARY, 1816. 



" Rest, rest, perturbed Earth i 
O rest, thou doletul Mother of Man- 
kind!" 

A Spirit sang in tones more plaintive than 
the wind ; 

" From regions where no evil thing ha? 
birth 

1 come — thy stains to wash away. 

Thy cherished fetters to unbind. 

And open thy sad eyes upon a milder day 

The Heavens are thronged with mart\rs 
that have risen 
From out thy noisome prison ; 
The penal caverns gioan 

With tens of thousands rent from off the 
tree 

Of hopeful life, — by battle's whirlwind 
blown 

Into the deserts of Eternity. 

Unpitied havoc ! Victims unlamcnted ! 

But not on .high, where madness is re- 
sented. 

And murder causes some sad tears to flow. 

Though, from the widely-sweeping blow. 

The choirs of Angels spread, triumphantly 
augmented. 

II. 
" False Parent of Mankind ' 
Obdurate, proud, and blind, 
I sprinkle thee with soft celestial dews 
Thy lost, maternal heart to re-infuse ! 
I Scattering this farfetched moisture from 
j my wings, 

I Upon the act a blessing I implore, 
i Of which the rivers in their secret springs, 
I The rivers stained so oft with human gore, 
I Are conscious ; — may the like return no 



494 



EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 



May Discord— for a Seraph's care 
Sliall be attended with a bolder prayer- 
May she, who once disturbed the seats of 
bhss 

'i'hese mortal spheres above, 
Be chained forever to the black abyss ! 
And thou, O rescued Earth, by peace and 

love, 
And merciful desires, thy sanctity approve !" 
The Spirit ended his mysterious nte, 
And the pure vision closed in darkness in- 
finite. 



XI. 

LINES 



WRITTEN ON' A BLANK LEAF IN A COPY 
OK THE author's POEM " THE EXCUR- 
SION," UPON HEARING OF THE DEATH 
OF THE LATE VICAR OF KENDAL. 

To public notice, with reluctance strong, 
Did 1 deliver this unfinished Song , 
Vet for one happy issue ; — and I look 
With self-congratulation on the Book 
Which ;:ious, learned, Mukfitt saw and 

read ;— 
Upon my thoughts his saintly Spirit fed ; 
He conned the new-born Lay with grateful 

heart 
Foreboding not how soon he must depart ; 
Unweeting that to him the joy was given 
Which good men take with them from earth 

to heaven. 



xii. 
ELEGIAC STANZAS. 

(addressed to sir g. h. b. upon the 
death of his sister-in-la \v.) 

1S24. 

O FOR i> dirge ! But why complain ? 

Ask rather a triumphal strain 

When Termor's race is run ; 

A garland of immortal boughs 

To twine around the Christian's brows, 

Whose glorious work is done. 

We pay a high and holy debt ; 
No tears of passionate regret 
Sh.iU stain this votive lay ; 
Ill-worthy, Beaumont ! were tlie grief 
That flings itself on wild relief 
When saints have passed away. 



Sad doom, at Sorrow's shrine to kneel, 

Forever covetous to feel. 

And impotent to bear ! 

Such once was hers— to think and think 

On severed love, and only sink 

From anguish to despair ! 

But nature to its inmost part 
Faith had refined ; and to her heart 
A peaceful cradle given : 
Calm as the dew-drop's, free to rest 
Within a breeze-fanned rose's breast 
Till it exhales to Heaven. 

Was ever Spirit that could bend 
To graciously ' — that could descend, 
Another's need to suit. 
So promptly from her lofty throne •* — 
In works of love, in these alone, 
How restless, how mmute ! 

Pale was her hue ; yet mortal cheek 
Ne'er kindled with a livelier streak 
When aught had suffered wrong, — 
Wlien auglit tliat breathes liad felt ?, wound 
Such look tlie Oppressor might confui.nd, 
However proud and strong. 

But hushed be every thought that springs 
From out the bitterness of things ; 
Her ([uiet is secure; 
No thorns can pierce her tender feet, 
Whose life was, ii'^e the violet, sweet, 
As climbing jasmine, pure — 

As snowdrop on an infant's grave, 

Or lily heaving with the wave 

That feeds it and defends ; 

As Vesper, ere the star hath kissed 

The mountain-top, or breathed li.c mist 

That from the vale ascends. 

Thou takest not awav, O Dmtli ' 
Tliou stnkest — absence perisheth. 
Indifference is no more; 
Tlie future brightens on our sic;ht ; 
For on the past hath failen a liglit 
That tempts us to adore. 



XIII 

ELEGIAC MUSINGS 

IN THE grounds OF COLEORTON HALL, 
THP SEAT OF THE LATE SIR G. H. 

BEAUMONT, BART. 

In these grounds stands the Parish Church, 
wlierem is a mural monument bearing an 
Inscription which, in deference to tlie earnest 
request of the deceased, is confined to name, 



EPITAPHS AND ELEgTAC PIECES- 



495 



dates, *:itl these words : — " Enter not into 
jmigP'Lnt with thy servant, O Lord! " 

WiTM copious eulogy in prose or rhyme 
Graven on the tomb we struggle against 

Vime, 
A-la-., how feebly ! but our feelings rise 
And still we struggle when a good man 

dies ; 
«uch offering Beaumont dreaded and for- 
bade, 
A spirit meek m self-i.b.isement clad. 
Yet here at least, though few have numbered 

days * 

That shunned so modestly the light of 

praise, 
His graceful manners, and the temperate 

ray 
Of that arch fancy which would round him 

play, 
Brightenmg a converse never known to 

swerve 
From courtesy and delicate reserve ; 
That sense, the bland philosophy of life. 
Which checked discussion ere it warmed to 

strife ; 
Those rare accomplishments, and varied 

powers. 
Might have their record among sylvan 

bowers. 
Oh, fled forever ! vanished like a blast 
That shook the leaves in myriads as it 

passed ;— 
Gone from this world of earth, air, sea, and 

sky, 
From all its spirit-moving imagery, 
Intensely studied with a painter's eye, 
A poet's heart ; and, for congenial view, 
Portrayed with happiest pencil, not untrue 
To common recognitions while the line 
Flowed in a course of sympathy divine ; — 
Oil ! severed, too abruptly, from delights 
That all the seasons shared with equal 

rights ; — 
Rapt in the grace of undismantled age. 
From soul-felt music, and the treasured 

page 
Lit by that evening lamp which loved to 

shed 
Its mpUow lustre round tiiy honored head ; 
Wliile Friends beheld thee give with eye, 

voice, mien. 
More than theatric force to Shakespeare's 

scene ; — 
If thou hast heard me — if thy Spirit know 
Aught of these bowers and whence their 

pleasures flow ; 



If things in our remembrance held so dear, 
And thoughts and projects fondly cherished 

here. 
To thy exalted nature only seem 
Time's vanities, light fragments of earth's 

dream — 
Rebuke us not !— The mandate is obeyed 
That said, " Let praise be mute where 1 an» 

laid ; '* 
The holier deprecation, given in trust 
To the cold marble, waits upon ttiydust; 
Yet have we found how slowly genuine 

grief 
Frorn silent admiration wins relief. 
Too long abashed thy Name is like a re 
That doth " within itself its sweetness 

close;" 
A drooping daisy changed into a cup 
In which her bright-eyed bcautv is shnt up. 
Within these groves, where still are flitting 

by 
Shades of the Past, oft noticed with a sigh, 
Shall stand a votive Tablet, haply free. 
When towers and temples fall, to speak of 

Tl'.ee ! 
If sculptured emblems of our mortal doom 
Recall not there the wisdom of the Tomb, 
Green ivy risen from out the cheerful earth 
Will fringe the lettered stone ; and herbs 

spring forth. 
Whose fragrance by soft dews and rain 

unbound. 
Shall penetrate the heart without a wound ; 
While truth and love their purposes fulfil, 
Commemorating genius, talent, skill, 
That could not lie concealed where Thou 

wert known ; 
Thy virtues He must judge, and He alone. 
riie God upon whose mercy they are 

thrown. 
/Vc:'., i8;o. 



WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH 
OF CHARLES LAMB. 

To a good Man of most dear memory 
This Stone is sacred. Here he lies apart 
From the great city vviiere he first drew 

breath. 
Was reared and taught ; and humbly earned 

his bread, 
To the strict labors of the merchant's desk 
By duty chained. Not seldom did thoee 

tasks 



49^ 



EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 



Tease, and the thought of time so spent de- 
press. 
His spirit, but the recompense was high ; 
Firm Independence, Bounty's rightful sire ; 
Affections, warm as sunshine, free as air : 
And when the precious hours of leisure 

came, 
Knowledge and wisdom, gained from con- 
verse sweet 
With books, or while he ranged the crowded 

streets 
With a keen eye, and overflowing heart : 
So genius triumphed over seeming wrong, 
And poured out truth in works by thought- 
ful love 
Inspired — works potent over smiles and 

tears. 
And as round mountain-tops the lightning 

plays, 
Thus iniiiKently sported, breaking forth 
As from a cloud of s(jme grave sympathy, 
Humor and wild instinctive wit, and all 
The vivid flashes of his spoken words. 
From the most gentle creature nursed in 

fields 
Had been derived the name he bore— a name, 
Wherever Christian altars liave been raised, 
Hallo wed to meekness and to innocence ; 
And if ui Inm meekness at times gave way. 
Provoked out of herself by troubles strange, 
Many and strange, that hung about his life ; 
Still, at the centre of his being, lodged 
A soul by resignation sanctified : 
And if too often, self-reproached, he felt 
That innocence belongs not to our kind, 
A power that never ceased to abide in him, 
Charity, 'mid the multitude of sins 
That she can cover, left not liis exposed 
To an unforgiving judgment from just 

Heaven. 
O, he was good, if e'er a good Man lived ! 



From a reflecting mind and sorrowing heart 
Those simple lines flowed with an earnest 

wish, 
Though but a doubting hope that they might 

serve 
F~itly to guard the precious dust of him 
Whose virtues called them forth. That aim 

is missed ; 
For much that truth most urgently required 
Had from a faltering pen been asked in vain ; 
Yet, haply, on the printed page received, 
Th3 imperfect record, there, rnay stand un- 

blamed 



As long as verse of mine shall breathe tht 

air 
Of memory, or see the light of love. 

Thou wert a scorner of the fields, my 

Friend, [fields, 

But more in show than truth ; and from the 
And from the mountains, to thy rural grave 
Transported, my soothed spirit hovers o'er 
Its green untrodden turf, and blowing 

flowers ; 
And taking up a voice shall Speak (tho' still 
Awed by the theme's peculiar sanctity 
Which words less free presumed not even to 

touch ) 
Of tliat fraternal love, whose heaven-lit lamp 
From infancy, through manhood, to the last 
Of threescore years, and to thy latest hour, 
Burnt on with ever-strengthening light, en- 
shrined 
Within thy bo.-om 

" Wonderful " hatli been 
The love established between man and 

man, 
" Passing the love of women ; " and between 
Man and his help-mate in fast wedlock 

joined [love 

Through God, is raised a spirit and soul of 

Without whose blissful influence Paradise 

i Had been no Paradise ; and earth wer^ now 

A waste where creatures bearing lui.nan 

form, 
Direst of savage beasts, would roam in fear, 
Joyless and comfortless. Our days i?,lide on ; 
And let him grieve who cannot choose but 

grieve 
That he hath been an Elm without liis Vine, 
And her bright dower of clustering cli.iritios, 
That, round his trunk and branches, might 

have clung 
Enriching and adorning. Unto thee, 
Not so enriciied, not so adorned, to tiiee 
Was given (say rather thou of later birth 
Wert given to her) a Sister — 'tis a word 
Timidly uttered, for she lives^ the meek, 
The self-restraining, and the ever-kind ; 
In whom thy reason and intelligent heart 
Found— for all interests, hopes, and tender 

cares. 
All softening, humanizing, hallowing powers, 
Whether withlield, or for her sake unsought- 
More than sufficient recompense ! 

Her love 
(What weakness prompts the voice to tell it 

here ? ) 
Was as the love of mothers ; and whe« 

y^ars, 



EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 



^'97 



Lifting the boy to man's estate, had called 

The long protected to assume the part 

Of a protector, the first filial tie 

Was undissolved ; and, in or out of sight, 

Remamed imperishably interwoven 

With life itself. Thus, 'mid a shifting world, 

Did they together testify of time 

^ind season's difference — a double tree 

With two collateral stems sprung from one 

root ; 
Such were they — such thro' life they might 

have been 
In union, in partition only such ; 
Otherwise wrought the will of the Most 

High ; 
Yet, thro' all visitations and all trials, 
Still they were faithful ; like two vessels 

launched 
From the same beach one ocean to explore 
With mutual help, and sailing — to their 

league 
True, as inexorable winds, or bars 
Floating or fixed of polar ice, allow. 

But turn we rather, let my spirit turn 
With thine, O silent and invisible Friend ! 
To those dear intervals, nor rare nor brief, 
When reunited, and by choice withdrawn 
From miscellaneous converse, ye were taught 
That the remembrance of foregone distress, 
And the worse fear of future ill (which oft 
Doth hang around it, as a sickly child 
Upon its mother) may be both alike 
Disarmed of power to unsettle present good 
So prized, and things inward and outward 

held 
In such an even balance that the heart 
Acknowledges God's grace, his mercy feels, 
And in its depth of gratitude is still. 

O gift divine of quiet sequestration ! 
The hermit, exercised in prayer and praise, 
And feeding daily on the hope of heaven, 
Is happy in his vow, and fondly cleaves 
To life-long singleness ; but happier far 
Was to your souls, and, to the thoughts of 

others, 
A. thousand times more beautiful appeared, 
Your dual loneliness. The sacred tie 
Is broken : yet why grieve ? for Time but 

holds 
His moiety in trust, till Joy shall lead 
To the blest world where parting is unknown. 



XV. 

EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON 
THE DEATH OF JAMES HOGG 

When first, descending from th*^ Moorh.i;<i4, 
1 saw the Stream of Yarrow glide 
Along a bare and open valley, 
The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide. 

When last along its banks I wandered, 
Through groves that had begun to shed 
Their golden leaves upon the pathways, 
My steps the Border-minstrel led. 

The Mighty Minstrel breathes no longer, 
Mid mouldering ruins low he lies ; 
And death upon the braes of Yarrow, 
Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes; 

Nor has the rolling year twice measured, 
From sign to sign, its steadfast course, 
Since every mortal power of Coleridge 
Was frozen at its marvellous source ; 

The rapt One, of the godlike forehead, 
The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth : 
And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, 
Has vanished from his lonely hearth. 

Like clouds that rake the mountain-sumnnts, 
Or waves that own no curbing hand, 
How fast has brother followed brother, 
From sunshine to the sunless land ! 

Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber 
Were earlier raised, remair to hear 
A timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
" Wiio next will drop and disappear .-' " 

Our 1 aughty life is crowned with darkness, 
Like London with its or.n black wreath, 
On which with thee, O Crabbe ! forth-lcok 

ing, 
I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath. 

As if but yesterday departed, 
Thou too art gone before ; but why, 
O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered, 
Should frail survivors heave a sigh ? 

Mourn rather for that holy Spirit, 
Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep* 
For Her who, ere her summer fadecf, 
Has sunk into a breathless sleep. 

No more of old romantic sorrows, 
For slaughtered Youth or love-lorn Maid ! 
With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten, 
And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet 
dead. 
Nov., 1835. 



498 



ODE. 



XVI. 

INSCRIPTION 

FOR A MONUMENT IN CKOSTHWAITE 
CHURCH, IN THE VALE OF KESWICK. 

Ye vales and hills whose beauty hither drew 
The poet's steps, and fixed him here, on you. 
His eyes have closed ! And ye, loved books, 

no more 
Shall Southey feed upon your precious lore, 
To works that ne'er shall forfeit their re- 
nown, 
Adding immortal labors of his own — 
Whether he traced historic truth, with zeal 
For the State's guidance, or the Clulrch'^ 
weal. 



Or Fancy, disciplined by studious art, 
Inlorm'd his pen, or wisdom of the hearf, 
Or judgments sanctioned in the Patriot's 

mind 
By reverence for *-.he rights of all mankind 
Wide were his ai'ns, yet in no human breast 
Could private fp-tling meet for holier rest. 
His joys, his 'jriefs, have vanished like a 

cloud 
From Skidd^w's top, but he to heaven was 

vowed 
Through hi«. industrious life, and Christian 

faint 
Calmed -r liis soul the feai of change and 

death. 



" ♦' 



ODE, 

INTIMAIIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM ;J ftCOLLFXTIONS OF EAKLV 

CHILD MOOD. 



The Child is father of the Man ; 
And I could wish my d?ys '.o oe 
Bound iach t.) each bv natural piety. 

Sec- page 79. 



Thkre was a time when, ir^adow, g'ove, 

and stream, 
1 he earth, and every C'^mmon sight, 
To me did seem 
.■\ppafa!!ed in celesaa' light, 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not .low as it hath been of yore ; — 
Turn wheresoe'er 1 may, 
By night or day, 
rh'' things which 1 have seen I now can see 
no more. 



The Rainbow comes and goes, 
And lovely is the Rose, 
'i'he Moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare, 



Waters on a starry night 

Are beautiful and fair ; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath past away a glory from the 
earth. 

HI. 
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous 
song. 

And while the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound. 
To me alone there came a thought of grief: 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 

And I again am strong r 
The cataracts blow tneir trumpets from the 

steep ; 
No mere shall grief of mine the season 
wrong ; 



ODE. 



499 



I hear the Echoes through the mountains 

throng, 
The Winds come to nie from the fields of 
sleep, 

And all the earth is gay ; 
Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity, 
And with the heart of May 
Doth every Beast keep holiday ; — 
Thou Child of Joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, 
thou happy Shepherd-boy ! 



Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make ; I see 
The lieavens laugh with you in your jubi- 
lee; 

My heart is at your festival. 
My head hath its coronal, 
The fulness of your bliss, 1 feel — I feel it 
all. 

Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 
While Earth herself is adornmg, 

This sweet May-niorninc;, 
And the Children are culling 

On every side, 
In a thousand valleys far and wide. 
Fresh bowers ; while the sun shines 
warm. 
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's 
arm : — 

1 hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 
— But there's a Tree, of many, one, 
A single Field which I have looked upon, 
Both of them speak of something that is 
gone : 

The Pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat : 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 



Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
The soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
And Cometh from afar : 

Not in entire forgctfulness. 

And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home : j 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing Boy, 
But He beholds the light, and whence it 
f^ows 

He sees it in his joy ; 



The Youth, who daily farther from the east 
Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 
And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended; 
At lengtii the Man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 

VI 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of hei 

own ; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kina 
And even with sometiiing ot a Mothers 
mind. 

And no unworthy aim. 
The homely Nurse doth all she can 
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 

Forget the glories he hath known. 
And that miperial palace whence he came. 

vu. 

Behold the Child among his new-born 

blisses, 
A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! 
See. where 'mid work of his own hand he 

lies, 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
With liglit upon him from his father's eyes 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart. 
Some fragment from his dream of human 

life, 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art ! 
A wedding or a festival, 
A mourning or a funeral. 

And this hath now his heart. 
And unto this he frames his song 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 
But it will not be long 
Ere this be thrown aside, 
And with new joy and pridt 
The little Actor cons another part ; 
Filling from time to time his " humorous 

stage " 
With all the Persons, down to palsied Agf» 
That Life brings with her in her equipagi 
As if his whole vocation 
Were endless imitation. 

VIII. 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth bcii.; 

Thy Soul's immensity ; 
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keop 
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the ctetnaj 

deep. 
Haunted forever by the eternal mind, — 



&r.c<::io-r-^.}Ur^ . (I /^^ 



y/--. 



ODE. 



Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 
On whom those truths do rest, 
Which we are toihns; all our lives to find, 
In darkness lest, the darkness of the grave ; 
Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 
/\ Presence which is not to be put by ; 
Thou little Child, yet "lorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's 

height, 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou pro- 
voke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly 

freight. 
And custom lie upon thee with avveight, 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 

IX, 

O joy ! that in our embers 
Is something that doth live, 
That nature yet remembers 
Wiiat was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years in me doth 

breed 
Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
For tliat which is most worthy to be blest ; 
Deliglit and liberty, the simple creed 
Of Cliiklhood, whether busy or at rest, 
VVJfii new-fledged hopes still fluttering in 
his breast : — 

Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise ; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 
Fallings from us, vanishings ; 
Blank misgivings of a Creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized, 
High instincts before which our mortal 

Nature 
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised : 
But for those first affections, 
Those shadowy recollections. 
Which be they what they may. 
Are yet the fountain light of all oui day, 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to 
make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Qt the eternal Silence : truths that wake, 

To perish never ; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad en- 
deavor, 

Nor Man nor Boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 



Hence in a season of calm weather 
Though inland far we be, 
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither. 

Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the Children sport upon the ^hore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling ever- 
more. 

X. 

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous 
song ! 

And let the young Lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound ! 

We in thought will join your throng, 
Ye that pipe and ye that play, 
Ye that through your hearts to-day 
F^eel the gladness of the May ! 

What though the radiance which was once 
so bright 

Be now forever taken from my sight, 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 

Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the 
flower ; 

We will grieve not, rather find 

Strength in what remains behind ; 

In the primal sympathy 

Which having been must ever be ; 

In the soothing thoughts that spring 

Out of human suffering ; 

In the faith that looks tli rough death, 

In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

XI, 

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and 
Groves, 

Forbode not any severing of our loves ! 

Yet in my heart of hearts 1 feel your might; 

I only have relinquished one delight 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

1 love the Brooks which down their chan- 
nels fret. 

Even more than when I tripped lightly as 
they ; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 
Is lovely yet ; 

The Clouds that gather round the setting 
sun 

Do take a sober coloring from an eye 

That hath kept watch oVr man's mortality; 

Another race hath been, and other palms 
arc won. [live, 

Thanks to the human heart by which we 

Thanks to its tenderness, its jcys, and fears, 

To me the meanest flower tliat blows can 
give, (tear.'; 

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for 
1803-6. 



THE PRELUDE. 5°* 



THE PRE LU D E, 

OR GROWTH OF A POET'S MIND; 

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL POEM. 



ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION. 

The following Poem was commenced in the beginning of the year 1799, and completed in the 
summer of 1805. 

The design and occasion of the work are described by the Author in his Preface to the 
P^xcuRSiON, first published in 1814, where he thus sj^eaks: — 

" Several years ago, when the Author retired to his native mountams with the hope of being 
enabled to construct a literary work that might live, it was a reasonable tiling that he should take 
a review of his own mind, and examine how far Nature and Education had qualified him fur such 
an emplovment. 

" As subsidiary to this preparation, he undertook to record, in verse, the origin and progress 
of his own powers, as far as he was acquainted with them. 

•' That work, addressed to a dear f:iend, most distinguished for his knowledge and genius, and 
to whom the Author's intellect is deeply indebted, has been long finished , and the result of the 
investigation which gave rise to it, was a determination to compose a philosophical Poem, cmi- 
taining views of Man', Nature, and Society, and to be entitled the * Recluse ; ' as having for its 
principal subject the sensations and opinions of a poet living 111 retirement. 

" The preparatory Poem is biographical, and conducts the history of the Author's mind to the 
point when he was emboldened to hope that his faculties were sufficiently matured for entering 
upon the arduous labor which he had proposed to himself ; and the two works have the same 
kind of relation to each other, if he may so express himself, as the Anti-cjiapel has to the body 
of a Gothic church. Continuing this allusion, he may be permitted to add, that his minor pieces, 
•which have been long before the public, when they shall be properly arranged, will be found by 
the attentive reader to have such connection with the main work as may give them claim 10 Le 
likened to the little cells, oratories, and sepu'chral recesses, ordinarily mcluded in those edifices." 

Such was the .Author's language in the year 1814. 

It will thence be seen, that the present Poem w?s intended to be introductory to the Recia'SE, 
and that the Reci.use, if completed, would have consisted of Three Parts. Of these, the Second 
Fart alone, viz., the Excursion, was finished, and given to the world by ilie Author. 

The First Book of the First Part of the Recluse still remains in manuscript , but the Third 
Part was only planned. The materials of which it would have been formed have, however^ been 
incorporated, for the most part, in the Author's f)ther Publications, written subsequently to the 
Excurs'On. 

The Friend, to whom the present Poem is addressed, was the late Samuei, Taylor Coi.K- 
RiGDE, who was resident in Malta, for the restoration of his health, when the greater part of it 
was composed. 

Mr. Coleridge read a considerable portion of the Poem while he was abroad ; and l\is feelings, 
on iiearing it recited by the .Author (after h;s return to his own country), are recorded in his 
Verses, addressed to Mr. Wordsworth, wliicli will be found in the " .Sibylline Leaves," p. 197,. 
ed. 1S17, or " Poetical Works, by S. T. Coleridge," vol. 1., p. 206.— Eu. 

Rydal Mount, jfuly 13M, 1850. 

BOOK FIRST. 



INTRODUCTION.— CHILDHOOD 
AND SCHOOL-TIME. 

O THERE is blessing in this gentle breeze, 
A visitant that while it fans my cheek 
Doth seem lulf-conscious of the joy it brings 



From the green fields, and from yon aznrs 

sky 
Whate'er its mission, the soft breeze ca» 

com? 
To none more grateful than to me ; escaped 
From the vast city, where 1 long iud pmcU 



502 



THE PRELUDE. 



A discontented sojourner • now free, 
Free as a bird to settle where I will. 
What dwelling shall receive me? in what 

vale 
Shall be my harbor ? underneath what grove 
Shall I take up my home? and what clear 

stream 
Shall with its murmur lul^me into rest ? 
The earth is all before me. With a heart 
Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, 
I look about ; and should the chosen guide 
Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, 
i cannot miss my way. I breathe again ! 
'J'rar.ces of thought and mountings of the 

mind 
Come fast upon me: it is shaken off, 
That burthen of my own unnatural self. 
The heavy weight of many a weary day 
Not mine, and such as were not mada for 

me. 
Long months of peace (if such bold word 

accord 
With any promises of human life), 
Long months of ease and undisturbed de- 

hght _ 
Are mine in prospect ; whither shall J turn. 
By road or pathway, or through trackless 

field. 
Up hill or down, or shall some floating 

thing 
Upon the river point me out my course ? 

Dear liberty ! Yet what would it avail 
But for a gift that consecrates the joy ? 
For 1, methought, while the sweet breath of 

heaven 
Was blowing on my body, felt within 
A correspondent breeze, that gently moved 
With quickening virtue, but is now become 
A tempest, a redundant energy, 
Vexing its own creation. Thanks to both. 
And their congenial powers, that, while they 

join 
In Ijreaking up a long-continued frost, 
Bring with them vernal promises, the hope 
Of active days urged on by flying hours, — 
Days of sweet leisure, taxed with patient 

thought 
Abstruse, nor wanting punctual service high. 
Matins and vespers of harmonious verse! 

Thus far, O Friend ! did I, not used to 

make 
A present joy the matter of a song, 
Pour forth that day my soul in measured 

strains 
Tliat would not be forgotten, and arc here 



Recorded : to the open fields I told 

A prophecy • poetic numbers came 

Spontaneously to clothe in priestly robe 

A renovated spirit singled out. 

Such hope was mine, for holy services. 

My own voice cheered me, and, far more^ 

the mind's 
Internal echo of the imperfect sound; 
To both I listened, drawing from them both 
A cheerful confidence in things to come. 

Content and not unwilling now to give 
A respite to this passion, 1 paced on 
With brisk and eager steps ; and came, at 

length. 
To a green shady place, where down I sate 
Beneath a tree, slackening my thoughts by 

choice, 
And settling into gentler happiness. 
'Twas autumn, and a cbar and placid day, 
Witli warmth, as much as needed, from a 

sun 
Two hours declined towards the west ; a day 
With silver clouds, and sunshine on the 

grass, 
And in the sheltered and the sheltering 

grove 
A perfect stillness. Many were the thouglits 
Encouraged and dismissed, till choice was 

made 
Of a known Vale, whither my feet should 

turn. 
Nor rest till they had reached the very door 
Of the one cottage which methought I s-aw. 
No picture of mere nicmory ever looked 
So fair ; and while upon the fancied scene 
I gazed with growing love, a higher power 
Than Fancy gave assurance of some work 
Of glory there forthwith to be begun, 
Perhaps too here performed. Thus long I 

mused. 
Nor e'er lost sight of what I mused upon, 
Save when, amid the stately grove of oaks, 
Now here, now there, an acorn, from its ciip 
Disli.dged, through sere leaves ruhtled,, or at 

once 
To the bare earth dropped with a startling 

sound. 
From that soft couch I los: not, till the sun 
Had almost touched the horizon ; casting 

then 
A backward glance upon the curling cloud 
Of city smoke, by distance luralized ; 
Keen as a Truant or a Fugitive, 
But as a Pilgrim resolute, I took, 
Even with the chance equipment of thai 

hour, 



THE PRELUDE. 



503 



The road that pointed toward that chosen 

Vale. 
It was a splendid evening, and my soul 
Once more made trial of her strength, nor 

lacked 
A\o\\2S\ visitations; but the harp 
Was soon defrauded, and the banded host 
Of harmony dispersed in stragglmg sounds 
And kistly utter silence ! " Be it so ; 
Why think of anything but present good?'' 
So, like a home-bound laborer I pursued 
My way beneath the mellowing sun, that 

shed 
Mild influence ; nor left in me one wish 
Again to bend the Sabbath of that time 
To a servile yoke. What need of many 

words ? 
A pleasant loitering Journey, through three 

days 
(-ontmued, brought me to my hermitage. 
1 spare to tell of what ensued, the life 
In common tilings — the endless store of 

things, 
Rare, or at least so seeming, every day 
I'ound all about me in one neighborhood — 
The self-congratulation, and, from morn 
To night, unbroken cheerfulness serene. 
But speedily an earnest longing rose 
To brace myself to some determined aim, 
Reading or thinking ; either to lay up 
New stores, or rescue from decay the old 
By timely interference . and therewith 
Came hopes stilj higher, tliat with outward 

life 
I might endue some airy phantasies 
That had been floating loose about for years. 
And to such beings temperately deal forth 
The many feelings that oppressed my heart. 
That hope hath been discouraged ; welcome 

light 
Dawns from the east, but dawns to disappear 
And mock me with a sky that ripens not 
Into a steady morning if my mind. 
Remembering the bold promise of the past, 
Would gladly grapple with some noble 

theme. 
Vain is her wish ; where'er she turns she 

finds 
Impediments from day to day renewed. 

And now it would content me to yield up 
Those lofty hopes awhile, for present gifts 
Of humbler industry. But, oh, dear Frisnd ! 
'1 lie Poet, gentle creature as he is, 
Halli, like the I.over, his unruly times ; 
His lits when he is neither sick nor well, 
1 hough no distress be near him but his own 



Unmanageable thoughts: his mind, best 

pleased 
While she as duteous as the mother dove 
Sits brooding, lives not always to that end, 
But like the innocent bird, hath goadings on 
That drive her as in trouble through the 

groves ; 
With me is now such passion, to be blamed 
No otherwise than as it lasts too long. 

When, as becomes a man who would pre- 
pare 
For such an arduous work, I through myself 
Make rigorous inqr.isition, the report 
Is often cheering ; for I neither seem 
To lack that first great gift, the vital soul, 
Nor general Truths, which are themselves a 

sort 
Of Elements and Agents, Under-powers, 
Subordinate helpers uf tlie living mind : 
Nor am 1 naked of external things. 
Forms, images, nor numerous other aids 
Of less regard, though won perhaps with 

toil 
And needful to build up a Poet's praise. 
Time, place, and manners do I seek, and 

these 
Are found in plenteous store, but nowhere 

such 
As may be singled out with steady choice ; 
No little band of yet remembered names 
Whom I, in perfect confidence, might hope 
To summon back from lonesome banish- 
ment, 
And make them dwellers in the hearts of 

men 
Now living, or to live in future years 
Sometimes the ambitious Power of choice, 

mistaking 
Proud spring tide swellings for a regular sea, 
Will settle on some British theme, some old 
Romantic tale by Milton left unsung ; 
More often turning to some gentle place 
Within the groves of Chivalry, 1 pipe 
To shepherd swains, or seated harp in hand, 
Amid reposing knights by a river side 
Or fountain, listen to the grave reports 
Of dire enchantments faced and overcome 
By the strong mind, and tales of war-like 

feats, 
Where spear encountered spear, and sword 

with sword 
Fought, as if conscious of the blazonry 
That the shield bore, so glorious was th« 

strife ; 
Whence inspiration for a song that winds 



5^4 



THE PRELUDE. 



Through ever changing scenes of votive 

quest 
Wrongs to redress, harmonious tribute paid 
To patient courage, and unblemished truth, 
To fnm devotion, zeal unquenchable. 
And Christian meekness liallowing faithful 

loves. 
Sometimes, more sternly moved, I would 

relate 
How vanquished Mithridates northward 

passed. 
And, hidden in the cloud of years, became 
Odin, ihe Father of a race by whom 
Perished the Roman Empire : how the 

friends 
And followers of Sertorious, out of Spain 
Flying, found shelter in the Fortunate Isles, 
And left their usages, their arts and laws. 
To disappear by a slow gradual death, 
To dwindle and to perish one by one, 
Starved in those narrow bounds : but not the 

soul 
Of Liberty, which fifteen hundred years 
Survived, and, when the European came 
With skill and power that might not be 

withstood, 
Did, like a p stilence, maintain its hold 
And wasted down by glorious death that 

race 
of natural heroes : or I would record 
How, in tyrannic times, some high-souled 

man, 
Unnamed among the chronicles of kings. 
Suffered in silence for Truth's sake: or tell. 
How that one Frenchman,* through con- 
tinued force 
Of meditation on the inhuman deeds 
Of those who conquered first the Indian 

Isles, 
Went single in his ministry across 
Tiie Ocean ; not to comfort the oppressed. 
But, like a thirsty wind, to roam about 
Withering the Oppressor ; how Gustavus 

sought 
Help at his need in Dalecarlia's mines : 
How Wallace fought for Scotland , left the 

name 
Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower, 
All over his dear country ; left the deeds 
Of Wallace, like a family of Ghosts, 
To people the steep rocks and river banks, 
Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul 
Of independence and stern liberty. 

* Dominique de Gourgues, a French gentle- 
man who went in 1568 to Florida to avenge the 
mas .acre of tb« French by the Spaniards there. 
—Ed. 



Sometunes it suits me better to invent 
A tale from my own heart, more near akin 
To my own passions and habitual thoughts { 
Some variegated story, in the main 
Lofty, but the unsubstantial structure melts 
Before the very sun that brightens it. 
Mist into air dissolving ' then a wish, 
My last and favorite aspiration, mounts 
With yearning towards some philosophic 

song 
Of Truth that cherishes our daily life ; 
With meditations passionate from deep 
Recesses in man's heart, immoital verse 
Thoughtfully fitted to the Orphean lyre ; 
But from this awful burthen 1 full soon 
Take refuge and beguile myself with trust 
That mellower years will bring a riper 

niind 
And clearer insight. Thus my days are 

past 
In contradiction ; with no skill to part 
Vague longing, haply bred by want of power, 
From paramount impulse not to be with- 
stood, 
A timorous capacity from prudence. 
From circumspection, infinite delay. 
Humility and modest awe themselves 
Betray me, serving often for a cloak 
To a more subtle selfishness ; that now 
Locks every function up in blank reserve, 
Now dupes me, trusting to an anxious eye 
That v;ith intrusive restlessness beats off 
Simplicity and self-presented truth. 
Ah ! better far than tins, to stray about 
Voluptuously through fields and rural walks, 
And ask no record of the hours, resigned 
To vacant musing, unreproved neglect 
Of all tlnngs, and deliberate holiday. 
Far better never to have heard the name 
Of zeal and just ambition, than to live 
Baffled and plagued by a mind that every 

hour - 
Turns recreant to her task; takes hea^ 

again. 
Then feels immediately some hollow thought 
Hang like an interdict upon her hopes. 
This is my lot ; for either still I find 
vSome imperfection in the chosen theme, 
Or see of absolute accomplishment 
Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself. 
That I recoil and droop, and seek repose 
In listlessness from vain perplexity, 
Unprofitably travelling toward the grave, 
Like a false steward who hath much received 
And renders nothing back. 

Was it for this 
That one, the fairest of all rivers, loved 



THE PRELUDE. 



505 



To blend his nuirniurs with my nurse's song, 
And, from his alder shades and rocky falls, 
And from his fords and shallows, sent a 

voice 
That flowed along my dreams? For this, 

didst thou, 
O Derwent ! wmding among grassy holms 
Where I was looking on. a babe m arms, 
Make ceaseless music that composed my 

thoughts 
'J'o more than infant softness, giving me 
Aimd the trettul dwellings of mankind 
A foretaste, a dim earnest, of the calm 
'J hat Nature breathes among the hills and 

groves ? 
When he had left the mountains and re- 
ceived 
On his smooth breast the shadow of those 

towers 
That yet survive, a shattered monument 
Ot feudal sway, the bright blue river passed 
Along the margin of our terrace walk ; 
A tempting j^laymate whom we dearly loved. 
Oh, many a time have 1, a five years' child, 
111 a small mill-race severed from his stream, 
Made one long bathing of a summer's day ; 
Basked in the sun, and plunged and basked 

again 
Alternate, all a summer's day, or scoured 
The sandy fields, leaping through flowery 

groves 
Of yellow ragwort ; or when rock and liill. 
The woods, and distant Skiddaw's lofty 

height. 
Were bronzed with deepest radirinc3, stood 

alone 
Beneath the sky, as if I had been born 
On Indian plains, and from my mother's hut 
Had run abroad in wantonness, to sport 
A naked savage, in the thunder shower. 

Fnir seed-time had my soul, and I grew up 
Fostered alike by beauty and by fear 
Much favored in my birth-place, and no less 
In that beloved Vale to which ere long 
We were transplanted — there were we let 

loose 
For sports of wider range. Ere I had told 
Ten birth-days, when among the mountain 

slopes 
Frost, and the breath of frosty wind, had 

snapped 
The last autumnal crocus, 'twas my joy 
With store of springes o'er my shoulder 

hung 
To range the open heights where woodcocks 

run 



Along the smooth green turf 'I'hrough half 

the night. 
Scudding away from snare to snare, I plied 
That an.xious visitation ;~moon and stars 
Were shining o"er my head. 1 was alone, 
And seemed to be a trouble to tiie peace 
That dwelt among them. Sometimes it 

befell 
In these night wanderings, that a strong 

desire 
O'erpowered my better reason, and the bird 
Which was the captive of another's toil 
Became my prey; and when the deed was 

done 
I heard among the solitary hills 
Low breathings coining after me, and sounds 
Of undistinguishable motion, steps 
Almost as silent as the turf they trod. 

Nor less wh-en spring had warmed the cul- 
tured Vale, 
Moved we as plunderers where the mother- 
bird 
Had in high places built her lodge ; though 

mean 
Our object and inglorious, yet the end 
Was not ignoble. Oh ! when I have hung 
Above the raven's nest, by knots of grass 
And half-inch fissures in the slippery rock 
But ill sustained, and almost (so it seemed) 
Suspended by the blast that blew amain, 
Shouldering the naked crag, oh, at that 

time 
While on the perilous ridge I hung alone. 
With what strange utterance did the loi;d 

dry wind 
Blow through my ear I the sky seemed n:t 

a sky 
Of earth — and with what motion moved the 
clouds ! 

Dust as we are. the immortal spirit grows 
Like harmony in music ; there is a dark 
rHscrutable workmanship that reconciles 
Discordant elements, makes them cling to 

gether 
In one society. How strange that all 
The terrors, pains, and early miseries, 
Regrets, vexations, lassitudes interfused 
Within my mind, should e'er have borne a 

part. 
And that a needful part, in making up 
The calm existence that is mine when I 
kx\\ worthy of myself 1^ Praise to the end! 
Thanks to the means which Natrre deigned 

to employ ; 
Whether her fearless visitings, or those 



5o6 



THE fre:.ude. 



That came witii soft alarm, like hiirlless 

light 
Opening the peaceful clouds ; or she may 

use 
Severer interventions, ministry 
More palpable, as best might suit her aim. 

One summer evening (led by her) I found 
A little boat tied to a willow tree 
Within a rocky cave, its usual home. 
Straight I unloosed licr chain, and stepping in 
Pushed from the shore. Jt was an act of 

stealth 
And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice 
(3f mountain-echoes did my boiit move on ; 
Leaving bciniid her still, on either side. 
Small circles glittering idly in the m(;on. 
Until they melted all into one track 
Of sparkling light. But now, like one who 

rows, 
Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen jioint 
Witli an unswerving line, I fixed my view 
Upon the summit of a craggy ridge, 
The horizon's utmost boundary ; far above 
Was nothing but the stars and the gray sky. 
She was an elfin pinnace ; lustily 
I dipped my oars into the silent lake, 
And, as 1 rose upon the stroke, my boat 
Went heaving through the water lake a 

swan ; 
When, from behind that craggy steep till then 
The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and 

huge. 
As if with voluntary power instinct 
Upreared its head, 1 struck and struck 

again, 
And growing still in stature the grim shape 
Towered up between me and the stars, and 

still. 
For so it seemed, with purpose of its own 
And measured motion like a living thing, 
Strede after me. With trembling • oars I 

turned, 
And through the silent water stole my way 
Back to the covert of the willow tree ; 
There in her mooring-place 1 left my bark, — 
And through the meadows homeward went, 

in grave 
And serious mood ; but after I had seen 
That spectacle, for many days, my brain 
Worked with a dim and undetermined sense 
Of unknown modes of being ; o'er my 

thoughts 
There hung a darkness, call it solitude 
Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes 
Remained, no pleasant images of trees. 
Of sea or sky, no colors of green fields \ 



hut huge and mighty forms, that do not 

live 
Like living men, moved slowly through tl « 

mind 
By day, and were a tioublc to my dreams 

Wisdom and Spirit of the universe ! 
Thou Soul that art the eternity of thought 
That givest to forms and images a breatii 
And everlasting motion, not in vain 
By day or star-light thus from my first dawii 
Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me 
The passions that build up our human suul;\ 
Not with the mean and vulgar works or 

man. 
But with high objects, with enduring 

things — 
With life and nature — purifying thus 
The elements of feeling and of thought, 
And sanctifying, by such disciiiline. 
Both pain and fear, until we recognize 
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 
Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed tc me 
With stinted kindness. In November days, 
When vapors rolling dov^n the valley made 
A lonely scene more lonesome, among 

woods, 
At noon and 'mid the calm of sunaiicr 

nights, 
When, by the margin of the trembling lake, 
Beneath the gloomy hills homeward 1 went 
In solitude, such intercourse was mine ; 
Mine was it in the fields both day and night, 
And by the waters, all the summer long. 

And in the frosty season, when the sun 
Was set, and visible for many a mile 
The cottage windows blazed through twi- 
light gloom, 
I heeded not their summons : happy time 
It was indeed for all of us — for me 
It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud 
The village clock tolled six,— I wheeled 

about, 
Proud and exulting like an untired horse 
That cares not for his home. All shod with 

steel. 
We hissed along the polished ice in games 
Confederate, imitative of the chase 
And woodland pleasures, — the resounding 

horn, 
The pack loud chiming, and the hunted 

hare. 
So through the darkness and the cold we 

flew, 
And not a voice was idle ; with the din 
Smitten, the precipices rang aloud ; 



THE PRELUDE. 



507 



The leafless trees and every icy eras 
Tinkled like iron ; while far distant hills 
Jntf.) the tumult sent an alien sound 
01 melancholy not unnoticed, while the 

stars 
Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the 

west 
The orange sky of eveninsj died away. 
Not seldom from the uproar I retired 
Into a silent bav, or sportively 
Glanced sidewav, leavini; the tumultuous 

throng, 
T > cut across the reflex of a star 
That fled, and, flying still before me, 

gleamed 
Upon the glassy plain ; and oftentimes. 
When we had given our bodies to t!ic wind, ] 
And all the shadowy banks on either side 
Came sweeping through the darkness, spin- 
ning still 
The rapid line of motion, then at once 
Have I, reclming back upon my heels, 
Stop])ed short ; yet still the solitary cliffs 
Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had 

rolled 
W^ith visible motion her diurnal round ! 
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, 
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and 

watched 
Till all was tranciuil as a dreamless sleep. 

Ye Presences of Nature in the sky 
And on the earth ! Ye Visions of the hills ! 
And Souls of lonely places ! can I think 
A vulgar hope was yours when ye employed 
Such ministry, when ye through many a 

year 
Haunting me thus among my boyish sports, 
On caves and trees, upon the woods and 

hills. 
Impressed upon all forms the characters 
Of danger or desire ; and thus did make 
The surface of the universal earth 
With triumph and delight, with hope and 

fear, 
Work like a sea ? 

Not uselessly employed. 
Might I pursue this theme through every 

change 
Of exercise and play, to which the year 
Did summon us in his dehglitful round. 

We were a noisy crew ; the sun in heaven 
Heheld not vales more beautiful than ours ; 
Nor saw a band in happmess and joy 
Richer, or wortliier ot the ground they trod. 
1 could record with no reluctant voice 



The woods of autunm, and their hazel 

bowers 
With nulk-white clusters hung ; the rod an< 

line, 
Truo symbol of hope's foolishness, whose 

strong 
And unrcproved enchantment led us on 
By rocks and pools shut out from every star, 
All tiie green summer, to forlorn cascades 
Among the windmgs hid of mountain 

brooks, 
— Unfading recollections ! at this hour 
Tlie heart is almost mine with which 1 felt, 
From some hill-top on sunny afternoons, 
The paper kite high among fleecy clouds 
Pull at her rein like an impetuous courser ; 
Or, from the meadows sent on gusty days, 
Beheld her breast the wind, then suddenly 
Dashed headlong, and rejected by the storm. 

Ye lowly cottages wherein we dwelt, 
A ministration of your own was yours ; 
Can I forget you, being as you were 
So beautiful among the pleasant fields 
In which ye stood ? or can I here forget 
'J'he plain and seemly countenance with 

which 
Ye dealt out your plain comforts ? Yet had y3 
Delights and exultations of your own. 
Eager and never weary we pursued 
OuV home-amusements by the warm peat- 
fire 
At evening, when with pencil, and smooth 

slate 
In square divisions parcelled out and all 
With crosses and with cyphers scribbled 

o'er. 
We schemed and puzzled, head opposed to 

head 
In strife too humble to be named in verse: 
Or round the naked table, snow-white deal, 
Cherry or maple, sate in close array. 
And to the combat, Loo or \\hist, led on 
A thick-ribbed army ; not, as in the world, 
Neglected and ungratefully thrown by 
Even for the very service they had wrought. 
But husbanded through many a long cam- 
paign. 
Uncouth assemblage was it, where no few 
Had changed their functions ; some, plebe- 
ian cards [birth, 
Which Fate, beyond the promise of thei> 
Had dignified, and called to represent 
The persons of departed j^otentates. 
Oil. with what echoes on the board they felH 
Ironic diamonds,— clubs, hearts, diamondSi 
spades, 



So8 



THE PRELUDE. 



A congregation piteously akin ! 
Cheap matter offered they to boyish wit, 
Those sooty knaves, precipitated down 
With scoffs and taunts, like Vulcan out of 

heaven : 
The paramount ace, a moon in her eclipse, 
Queens gleaming through their splendor's 
~ last decay, 

And monarchs surly at the wrongs sustained 
By royal visages. Meanwhile abroad 
Incessant rain was falling, or the frost 
Raged bitterly, with keen and silent tooth ; 
And, interrupting oft that eager game, 
Fiom under Esthwaite's splitting fields of 

ice 
The pent-up air, struggling to free itself, 
Gave out to meadow grounds and hills a 

loud 
Protracted yelling, like the noise of wolves 
Howling in troops along the Bothnic Main. 

Nor, sedulous as I have been to trace 
How Nature by extrinsic passion first 
Peopled the mind with forms sublime or 

fair. 
And made me love them, may I here omit 
How other pleasures have been mine, and 

joys 
Of subtler origin ; how I have felt, 
Not seldom even m that tempestuous time, 
Those hallowed and pure motions of the 

sense 
Which seem, in their simplicity, to own 
An intellectual cliarm ; that calm delight 
Which, if I err not, surely must belong 
To those first-born affinities that fit 
Our new existence to existing things, 
And, in our dawn of being, constitute 
The bond of union between life and joy.' 

Yes, I remember when the changeful 

And twice five summers on my mind had 

stamped 
The faces of the moving year, even then 
I held unconscious intercourse with beauty 
Old as creation, drinking in a pure 
Organic pleasure from the silver wreaths 
Of curling mist, or from the level plain 
Of waters colored by impending clouds. 

The sands of Westmoreland, the creeks 

and bays 
Of Cumbria's rocky limits, they can tell 
How, when the Sea threw off his evening 

shade. 
And to the shepherd's hut on distant hills 
Sent welcome notice of the rising moon, 



How I have stood, to fancies such as tho»e 
A stranger, linking with the spectacle 
No conscious memory of a kindred sight, 
And bringing with me no peculiar sense 
Of quietness or peace ; yet have I stood, 
Even while mine eye hath moved o'er manj: 

a league 
Of shining water, gathering as it seemed 
Through every hair-breadth in that field oi 

li:;ht 
New pleasure like a bee among the flowers. 

Thus oft amid those fits of vulgar joy 
Which, through all seasons, on a child's 

pursuits 
Are prompt attendants, 'mid that giddy 

bliss 
Which, like a tempest, works along the 

blood 
And is forgotten ; even then I felt 
Gleams like the flashing of a shield ;— the 

earth 
And common face of Nature spake to me 
Rememberable things ; sometimes, 'tis 

true, 
By chance collisions and quaint accidents 
(Like those ill-sorted unions, work supposed 
Of evil-minded fairies), yet not vain 
Nor profitless, if haply they impressed 
Collateral objects and appearances, 
Albeit lifeless then, and doomed to sleep 
Until maturer seasons called them forth 
To impregnate and to elevate the mind. 
—And if the vulgar joy by its own weight 
Weaned itself out of the memory, 
'i'he scenes which were a witness of that 

joy 
Remained in their substantial lineaments 
Depicted on the brain, and to the eye 
Were visible, a daily sight ; and thus 
By the impressive discipline of fear. 
By pleasure and repeated happiness, 
So frequently repe; te 1, and by force 
Of obscure feelings representative 
Of things forgotten, these, same scenes so 

bright, 
So beautiful, so majestic in themselves, 
Thougii vet the day was distant, did become 
Habitually dear, and all their forms 
And changeful colors by invisible links 
Were fastened to the affections. 

I began 
My storv early— not misled, 1 trust, 
By an inrtrniitv of love for davs 
Disowned by memory— ere tiie breath of 
spring 



THE PRELUDE. 



509 



Planting my snowdrops among winter 

snows : [prompt 

Nor will it seem to thee, O Friend ! so 
In sympathy, that I have lengthened out 
With fond and feeble tongue a tedious tale. 
Meanwhile, my hope has been that I might 

fetch 
[nvigoiating thoughts from former years ; 
Might fix the wavering balance of my mind, 
A.nd haply meet reproaches too, whose 

power 
May spur me on, in manhood now mature 
To honorable toil. Yet should th?se hopes 
Prove vain, and thus should neither I be 

taught 
To understand myself, nor thou to know 
With better knowledge how the heart was 

framed 
Of him thou lovest ; need I dread from thee 
Harsh judgments, if the song be loth to quit 



Those recollected hours that have the charm 
Of visionary things, those lovely forms 
And sweet sensations that throw back our 

life. 
And almost make remotest infancy 
A visible scene, on which the sun is shining ? 

One end at least hath been attained ; my 

mind 
Hath been revived, and if this genial mood 
Desert me not, forthwith shall be brought 

down 
Through later years the story of my life. 
The road lies plain before me ; — 'tis a theme 
Single and of determined bounds ; and lience 
I choose it rather at this time, than work 
Of ampler or more varied argument, 
Where I might be discomfited and losl : 
And certain hopes are with me, that U, thee 
This labor will be welcome, honored Friend 1 



BOOK SECOND. 



SCHOOL-TIME. 



CONTINUED. 



Thus far, O Friend! have we, though leav- 
ing much 
Unvisited, undeavored to retrace 
The simple ways in which my childhood 

walked ; 
Tliose chiefly that first led me to the love 
Of rivers, woods, and fields. The passion 

yet 
Was in its birth, sustained as might befall 
By nourishment that came unsought ; for 

still 
From week to week, from month to month, 

we lived 
A round of tumult. Duly were our games 
Prolonged in summer still the day-light 

failed . 
No chair remained before the doors ; the 

bench 
And threshold steps were empty ; fast asleep 
The laborer, and the old man who had sate 
A later lingerer , yet the revelry 
Continued and the loud uproar : at last, 
When all the ground was dark, and twinkling 

stars 
Edged the black clouds, home and to bed we 

went. 
Feverish with weaiy joints and beating 

minds. 



Ah ! is there one who ever has been young, 
Nor needs a warning voice to tame the pride 
Of intellect and virtue's self-esteem t 
One is tiiere, though the wisest and the best 
Of all mankind, wlio covets not at times 
Union that cannot be ; — wlio would not give, 
If so he might, to duty and to truth 
The eagerness of infantine desire.'' 
k tranquillizing spirit presses now 
On my corporeal frame, so wide appears 
The vacancy between me and tliose days 
Which yet have such self-presence in my 

mind 
That, musing on them, often do I seem 
Two consciousnesses, conscious of myself 
And (jf some other Being. A ruc'e mass 
Of native rock, left midway in the square 
Of our small market village, was the goal 
Or centre of these sports ; and wlien, re- 
turned 
.After long absence, thither I repaired, 
Cone was the old gray stone, and in its place 
A smart Assembly-room usurped tiie ground 
That hath been ours. There let tlie fiddle 

scream. 
And be ye hapj^y ! Vet, my Friends ! I know 
That more than one of you will tiiink with 

me 
Of those soft starry nights, and that old 

Dame 
From whom the stone was named. vfLo 
there had sate, 



Sio 



THE PRELUDE. 



rtnd watched her table with its huckster's 

wares 
Assiduous, through tlic length of sixty years. 

We ran a boisterous course : the year s]ian 
round 
tVith giddy motion. But the time ap- 
proached 
That brought with it a regular desire 
For calmer pleasures, when the winning 

forms 
Of Nature were collaterally attacherl 
To every scheme of holiday dclieht 
And every boyiih sport, less grateful else 
And languidly pursued. 

When Slimmer came, 
Our pastime was, on bright half-holidavs, 
To sweep along the plain of Windermere 
With rival oars ; and the selected boui iie 
Was now an Island musical witli Birds 
That sang and ceased not ; now a Sister Isle 
Beneath tlie oaks' umbrageous covert, sown, 
With lilies of the valley like a field ; 
And now a third small Island, wl'.ere sur- 
vived 
In solitude the ruins of a shrine 
Once to Our Lady dedicate, and served 
Daily with chaunted rites. In such a race 
?o ended, disappointment could be none, 
Uneasiness, or pain, or jealousy: 
We rested in the shade, all pleased alike, 
Conquered and conqueror. Thus the pride 

of strength, 
And the vain-glory of sujierior skill, 
Were tempered; thus was gradually pro- 
duced 
A quiet independence of the heart ; 
And to my Friend who knows me I may 

add, 
Fearless of blame, that hence for future days 
Knsued a difilidence and modesty. 
And I was taught to feel, perhaps too much, 
Viie self-sufficing j-ovver of Solitude. 

Our daily meals were frugal, Sabine fare! 
More than we wished we knew the blcssi.ig 

then 
Jf vigorous hunger — hence corporeal 

strength 
Unsapped by delicate viands; for, exclude 
A little weekly stipend, and we lived 
Through three divisions of the quartered 

year 
In penniless poverty. But now to school 
From the half-yearly holitlays returned, 
We came v/ith weightier purses, that suf- 

liced 



To furnish treats more costly than the Damg 
Of the old gray stone, from her scant board, 

supplied. 
Hence rustic dinners on the cool green- 
ground, 
Or in the woods, or by a river side 
Or shady fountains, while among the leaves 
Soft airs were stirring, and the mid-day sun 
Unfelt shone brightly round us in our joy. 
Nor is my aim neglected if I tell 
How sometimes, in the length of tliose half- 
years, 
We from our funds drew largely ; — proud to 

curb. 
And eager to spur on, the galloping steed ; 
And with the courteous inn-keeper, whose 

stud 
Supplied our want, we haply might employ 
Sly subterfuge, if the adventure's bound 
Were distant : some famed temple where of 

yore 
The Druids worshipped, or the antique walls 
Of tliat large Abbey, where within the Vale 
Of Nightshade, to St. Mary's honor built, 
Stands yet a mouldering pile with fractured 

arch, 
r)elfry, and images, and living trees; 
A h(^ly scene !— Along the smooth green turf 
Our horses grazed. To more than inland 

]>eace, 
Left by the west wind sweeping overhead 
From a tumultuous ocean, trees and towers 
in that se(|uebt.^red valley may be seen. 
Both silent and both motionless alike ; 
Such the deep shelter that is there, and such 
The safeguard for repose and quietness. 

Our steeds remounted and the summons 

given, 
With whij) and spur we through the chauntry 

flew 
In uncouth race, and left the cross legged 

knight. 
And the stone-abbot, and that single wren 
Which one day sang so sweetly in the nave 
Of the old church, that — though from recent 

showers 
The earth was comfortless, and, touched by 

taint 
Internal breezes, sobbings of the place 
And respirations, from llie roofless walls 
The shuddering ivy dripped large drops^ 

yet still 
So sweetly 'mid the gloom the invisible bird 
Sang to herself, that there I could hav« 

made 
My dwelling-place, and lived forever there 



THE PR EL UDE. 



To hear such music. Througli the walls 

we flew 
And down the valley, and, a circuit made 
in wantonness of heart, through rough and 

smooth 
We scampered homewards. Oh, ye rocks 

and streams, 
And that still spirit shed from evening air! 
Even in this joyous time i sometimes felt 
Vour presence, when with slackened step we 

breathed 
Along the sides of the steep hills, or when 
Lighted by gleams of moonlight from the 

sea 
We beat with thundering hoofs the level 

sand. 

Midway on long Winander's eastern shore, 
Within the crescent of a pleasant bay, 
A tavern stood ; no homely-featured house, 
Primeval like its neigiiboring cottages. 
But, 'twas a splendid place, ^he door beset 
With chaises, grooms, and liveries, and 

within 
Decanters, glasses, and the blood-red wine. 
In ancient times, and ere t!ie Hall was built 
On the large island, had this dwelling been 
More worthy of a poet's love, a hut. 
Proud of its own bright fire and sycamore 

shade. 
But — though the rhymes were gone that 

once inscribed 
The threshold, and large golden characters. 
Spread o'er the spangled sign-board, had 

dislodged 
The old Lion and usurped his place, in 

slight 
And mockery of the rustic painter's hand — 
\'et, to this hour, the spot to me is dear 
With all its foolish pomp. The garden lay 
llpon a slope surmounted by a plain 
Of a small ixjwliiig-.rreen ; beneath us stood 
A grove, with gleams of water through the 
I trees 

I And over the tree-lops ; nor did we want 
j Refreshment, strawberries and mellow 

cream. 
I There, while througli half an afternoon we 

played [vailed 

I On the smooth platform, whether skill pre- 
f Or happy bhnuler triumijlied, bursts of glee 
Made -ll tiie mountains ring. But, ere night- 
fall, 
When in our pinnace we returned at leisure 
Over the shadowy lal<e, and to the beach 
Of some small island steered our course with 

one, 



The Minstrel of the Troop, and left him 

there, 
And rowed off gently, while he blew his flute 
Alone upon the rock — oh, then, the cahn 
And dead still water lay upon my mind 
Even with a weight of pleasure, and the sky, 
Never before so beautiful, sank down 
Into my heart, and held me like a dream ! 
Thus were my sympathies enlarged, and 

thus 
Daily the common range of visible things 
Grew dear to me : already I began 
To love tiie sun ; a boy 1 loved the sun. 
Not as I since have loved him. as a pledge 
And surety of our earthly life, a light 
Widch we behold and feel we are alive ; 
Nor for his bounty to so many worlds — 
But for this cause, that I had seen him lay 
His beauty on the morning hills, had seen 
'llie western mountain touch his setting orb, 
In many a thoughtless hour, when, from 

excess 
Of happiness, my blood appeared to flow 
For its own pleasure, and I breathed with 

jov. 
And, from hke feelings, humble though in- 
tense. 
To patriotic and domestic love 
Analogous, the moon to me was dear : 
I'^or I could dream away my purposes, 
Standing to gaze upon her while she hung 
Midway between the hills, as if she knew 
No other region, but bclonrjed to thee. 
Yea, appertained by a peculiar right 
To tliee and thy gray huts, thou one dear 
Vale ! 

Those incidental charms which first at- 
tached 
My heart to rural objects, day by day 
Cirew weaker, and I hasten on to tell 
How Nature, intcrvenient till tiiis time 
And secondary, now at length was sought 
For her own sake. But who sh.Ul parcel out 
II. s intellect l)y geometric rules. 
Split like a j>rovince into round and square? 
Who knows the individual hour in which 
His habits were first sown, even as a seed .'' 
Who tiiat shall point as with a wand and say 
" This portion of the river of my mind 
Came from yon fountain.?" Thou, my 

Friend ! art one 
More deeply read in thy own thoughts ; to 

thee 
Science appears but what in truth she is, 
Not as our glory and our absolute boast, 
But as u succedaneam, and a prop 



f.IS 



THE PRELUDE. 



To our infirmity. No officious slave 
Art thou of that false secondary power 
By which we multiply distinctions, then 
Deem -that our puny boundaries are things 
That we perceive, and not that we have 

made. 
To thes, unblinded by these formal arts. 
The unity of all hath been revealed, 
And thou wilt doubt, with me less aptly 

skilled 
Than many are to range the faculties 
In scale and order, class the cabmet 
Oi their sensations, and in voluble phrase 
Run through the history and birth of each 
As of a single independent thing. 
Hard task, vain hope, to analyze the mind. 
If each most obvious and particular tiiought, 
Not in a mystical and idle sense. 
But in the words of Reason deeply weighed, 
Hath no beginning. 

Blest the infant Babe, 
(For with my b^st conjecture I would trace 
Our Being's earthly progress), blest the 

Babe, 
Kursed in his Mother's arms, who sinks to 

sleep 
Rocked on his Mother's breast ; who with 

his soul 
Drinks in the feelings of his Mother's eye ! 
For him, in one dear Presence, there exists 
A virtue which irradiates and exalts 
Objects through widest intercourse of sense. 
No outcast he, bewildered and depressed : 
Along his infant veins are interfused 
The gravitation and die filial bond 
Of nature that connect him with the world. 
Is there a flower, to which he points with 

hand 
Too weak to gather it, already love 
Drawn from love's purest earthly fount for 

him 
Hath beautified that flower ; already shades 
Of pity cast from inward tenderness 
Do fall around him upon aught that bears 
Unsightly marks of violence or harm. 
Emphatically such a Being lives. 
Frail creature as he is, helpless as frail, 
An inmate of this active universe : 
For feeling has to him imparted power 
That through tiie growing faculties of sense 
Doth like an agent of the one great Mind 
Create, creator and receiver both. 
Working but in alliance with the works 
Which it beholds. — Such, verily, is tlie first 
Poetic spirit of our human life, 
By uniform control of after years. 
In most, abated or suppressed ; in some, 



Through every change of growth and c^ 

decay, 
Pre-emment till death. 

From early days, 
Beginning not long after that first time 
In which, a Babe, by intercourse of touch 
I held mute dialogues with my Mother's 

heart, 
I have endeavored to display the means 
Whereby this infant sensibility. 
Great birthright of our being, was in me 
Augmented and sustained. Yet is a path 
More difficult before me ; and I fear 
That in its broken windings we shall need 
The chamois' sinews, and the eagle's wing. 
For now a trouble came into my mind 
From unknown causes. I was left alone 
Seeking the visible world, nor knowing 

why. 
The props of my affections were removed, 
And yet the building stood, as if sustained 
By its own spirit ! All that I beheld 
Was dear, and hence to finer influxes 
The mind lay open to a more exact 
And close communion. Many are our joys 
In youth, but oh! what happiness to live 
When every hour brings palpable access 
Of knowledge, when all knowledge is deliclit, 
And sorrow is not there I The seas(jns 

came. 
And every season wheresoe'er I moved 
Unfolded transitory qualities, 
Which, but for this most watchful power of 

love, 
Had been neglected; left a register 
Of permanent relations, else unknown. 
Hence life, and change, and beauty, solitude 
More active even than " best society " — 
Society made sweet as solitude 
By silent inobtrusive sympathies, 
And gentle agitations of the mind 
From manfold distinctions, difference 
Perceived in things, where, to the unwatth- 

ful eye, 
No difference is, and hence, from the same 

source, 
Sublimer joy ; for 1 would walk alone, 
Under the quiet stars, and at that time 
Have felt whate'er there is of power u 

sound 
To breathe an elevated mood, by form 
Or image unprofaned; and I would stand, 
If the ni^ht blackened with a coming storm, 
Beneath some rock, listening to notes that 

are 
The ghostly language of the ancient earth, 
Or make their dim abode in distant winds 



THE rRFJUDE. 



513 



Thence did 1 drink the visionaiv power; 
And deem not profitless those fleeting moods 
Of bliadowy exultation ; not for this 
That they are kindred to our purer mind 
And intellectual life; but that the soul, 
Kemembering how she felt, but what she 

felt 
Kemembering not, retains an obscure sense 
C)l possible sublimity, whereto 
With growing faculties she doth aspire, 
With faculties still growing, feeling still 
That whatso-vcr point they gain, they yet 
Have sometiiing to pursue. 

And not alone, 
'Mid gloom and tumult, but no less 'mid 

fair 
And tranquil scenes, tliat universal power 
And fitness in tlie latent qualities 
And essences of things, by which the mind 
Is moved with feelings of delight, to me 
Came strengthened with a superadded soul, 
A virtue not its own. My morning walks 
Were early ; — oft before the hours of school 
I travelled round our little lake, five miles 
Of pleasant wandering. Happy time I more 

dear 
For this, that one was by my side, a Friend,* 
Then passionately loved ; with heart how 

full 
Would he peruse these lines I For many 

years 
Have since flowed in between us, and, our 

minds 
Roth silent to each other, at this time 
We live as if those hours had never been. 
Nor seldom d;d I lift our cottage latch 
Far earlier, ere one smoke-wreath had 

risen 
From human dwelling, or the vernal thrush 
Was audible : and sate among the woods 
Aione upon some jutting eminence, 
At tiie first gleam of dawnhght, when the 

Vale, 
Yet slumbering, lay in utter .solitude. 
How shall I seek the origin .' where find 
Faith in the marvellous things which then I 

felt ? 
Oft in these moments such a holy calm 
Would overspread my soul that bodily eyes 
Were utterly forgotten, and what I saw 
Appeared like something in myself, a dream, 
A prospect in the mind. 

'Twere long to tell 
What spring and autumn, what the winter 

snows, 

♦ Tlie late Rev, John Fleming, of Rayngg, 
Wmdermere. — Ed* 



And what the summer shade, what day and 

night. 
Evening and morning, sleep and waking, 

thought 
From sources inexhaustible, poured forth 
To feed the spirit of religious love 
In which I walked with Nature But le' 

this 
Be not forgotten, that I still retained 
My first creative sensibility ; 
That by the regular action of the world 
My soul was unsubdued. A plastic power 
Abode with me ; a forming hand, at times 
Rebellious, acting in a devious mood ; 
A local spirit of his own, at war 
With general tendency, but, for the most. 
Subservient strictly to external things 
With which it communed. An auxdiar 

light 
Came from my mind, which on the setting 

sun 
Bestowed new splendor, the melod.ous 

birds, 
The fluttering breezes, fountains that run 

on 
Murmuring so sweetly in themselves, obeyed 
A like dominion, and the midnight storm 
Grew darke in the presence of iny eye : 
Hence my obeisance, my devotion hence, 
And hence my transport. 

Nor should this, pcrchanca 
Pass unrecorded, that I still had loved 
The exercise and produce of a toil. 
Than analytic industry to me 
More pleasing, and whose character I deem 
Is more poetic as resembling more 
Creative agency. The song would speak 
Of that interminable building reared 
By observation of affinities 
In objects where no brotherhood exists 
To passive minds. My seventeenth yeai 

was tome ; 
And, whether from this habit rooted now 
So deeply in my mind, or frorVi excess 
In the great .social principle of life 
Coercing all things into sympathy, 
To unorganic naUires were transferred 
My own enjoyments; or the power ol truti 
Coming in revelation, did converse 
With things that really are; I, at this time, 
Siw blessings spread around me like a sea. 
Thus while the days flew by and years 

passed on, 
From Nature and her overflowing soul, 
I had received so much that all my thoughts 
Were steeped in feeling : I was only then 
Contented, when with bliss ineffable 



5H 



THE PRELUDE. 



I felt the sentiment of Reincj spread 

O'er all that moves and all tiiat seemeth 

still ; 
OYr all that, lost beyond the reach of 

thought 
And human knowledge, to the human eye 
Invisible, yet liveth to tiie heart 
O'er all that leaps and runs, and shouts and 

sings, 
Or beats the gladsome air ; o'er all that 

glides 
Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself, 
And mighty depth of waters. Wonder not 
If higli the transport, great the joy I felt, 
Communing in this sort through eaith and 

heaven 
With every form of creature, as it looked 
Towards the Uncreated with a countenance 
Of adoration, with an eye of love. 
One song they sang, and it was audible, 
Most audible then when the fleshly ear 
O'ercome by huin!)!est prelude of that strain 
Forgot her functions, and slept undisturbed. 

If this be error, and another faith 
Find easier access to the pious mind, 
Yet were 1 grossly destitute c f all 
Those human sentiments that make this 

earth 
So dear, if I should fail with grateful voice 
To speak of you, ye mountains, and ye 

lakes 
And sounding cataracts, ye mists and winds 
That dwell among the hills where I was 

born. 
If in my youth 1 have been pure in heart. 
If, mingling with the world, I am content 
With my own modest pleasures, and have 

lived 
With God and Nature communing, removed 
From little enmities and low desires, 
7'lic gift is yours : if in tliese times of fear. 
This melancholy waste of hopes o'erthrov/n, 
If, 'mid indifference and apathy, 
And wicked exultation when good men 



I On every side fall off. wo know not how, 
To sclhshncs>, dibguiscd in gentle name* 
Ui peace and quiet and doniestic love, 
Vet mingled not unv.illingly with sneers 
On visionary minds ; if, in this time 
Of dereliction and dismay, I yet 
Despair not of our nature, but retain 
A moie than Roman confidence, a faith 
That fails not, in all sorrow my support. 
The blessing of my life ; the gift is yours, 
Ye winds and sounding cataracts ! 'tii 

yours. 
Ye mountains ! thine, O Nature I Thou hast 

fed 
My lofty speculations ; and in thee, 
For tills uneasy he; rt of ours, I find 
A never-failing principle of joy 
And purest passion. 

'J'hou. my Friend ! wert reared 
In the great city, 'mid far otiier scenes ; 
But we, by different roads, at lengtli Lave 

gained 
The seh-same bourne. And for this case 

to thee 
I speak, unapprehensive of contempt, 
The insinuated scoff of coward tongues, 
And all that silent language which so oft 
In conversation between man and man 
Blots from the human countenance all 

trace 
Of beauty and of love. For thou hast 

sought 
The truth in solitude, and since the days 
That gave liberty, full long desired, 
To serve in Nature's temple, thou hast 

been 
The most assiduous of her ministers; 
In many things my brother, cliiefly here 
In this cur deep devotion 

Fare thee well ! 
Health and the quiet of a healthful mind 
Attend thee ! seeking oft tlie haunts of mca 
And yet more often living with thyself, 
And for thyself, so liappily shall thy days 
Be many, and a blessing to mankind. 



BOOK THIRD. 

RESIDENCE AT CAMBRIDGE 



It was a dreary morning when the wheels 
Rolled over a wide plain o'erhung with 

clouds. 
And nothing cheered our way till first we 

saw 



The long-roofed chapel of King's College 

lift' 

Turrets and pinnacles in answering files, 
Extended high above a dasky grove. 

Advancmg, we espied upon the road 
A student clothed in gown and tasselled cap 



THE PRELUDE. 



515 



Striding along as if o'eitasked by Time, 
Or covetous of exercise and air ; 
He passed — nor was I master of my eyes 
Till he was left an arrow's fligiit behind. 
As near and nearer to the spot we drew, 
It seemed to suck us in with an eddy's force. 
Onward we drove beneath the Cast! j ; caught, 
While crossmg Magdalene Bridge, a glimpse 

of Cam ; 
And at the Hoop alighted, famous Inn. 

My spirit was up, my thoughts were full of 

hope ; 
Some friends I had, acquaintances who there 
Seemed friends, poor simple school-boys, 

now hung round 
With honor and importance : in a world 
Of welcome faces up and down I roved ; 
Questions, directions, warnings and advice, 
Flowed in upon me, from all sides ; fresh 

day 
Of pride and pleasure ! to myself I seemed 
A man of business and expense, and went 
From shop to shop about my own affairs. 
To Tutor or to Taylor, as befell, 
F'rom street to street with loose and careless 

mind. 

I was the dreamer, they the dr:;-.:ii ; I 
roamed 
Delighted through the motley spect;icle ; 
Gowns grave, or gaudy, doctors, students, 

streets, 
Courts, cloisters, flocks of churches, gate- 
ways, towers : 
Migration strange for a stripling of the hills, 
A northern villager. 

As if the change 
Had waited on some Fairy's wand, at once 
Behold me rich in monies, and attired 
A splendid garb, with hose of silk, and hair 
Powdered like rimy trees, when frost is keen. 
My lordly dressing-gown, I pass it by, 
With other signs of manhood that supplied 
The lack vA beard. —The weeks went roundly 

on. 
With invitations, suppers, wine and fruit, 
Smooth housekeeping within, and all with- 
out 
Liberil, and suiting gentleman's array. 

The Evangelist St. Joim my patron was ; 
Three Gothic courts are his, and in the first 
Was my abiding-place, a nook obscure; 
Right underneatii.the College kitcliens made 
A humming sound, less tuneable than bees. 
But hardly less industrious ; with shrill 
notes 



Of sharp command and scolding intermixed. 
Near me hung rrinity's loquacious clock, 
Who never let the quarters, night or day, 
Slip by him unprociaimed, and told the 

hours 
Twice over with a male and female voice. 
Her peahng organ was my neighbor too 
And from my pillow, looking forth by hgh> 
Of moon or favoring stars, I could behold 
TIic antecliapel vvliere the statue stood 
Of Newton witii his ]5rism and silent face. 
The marble index of a mind forever 
Voyaging through strange seas of Thought 
^'"'"alone. 1 

Of College labors, of the Lecturer's room 
All studded round, as thick as chairs could 

stand. 
With loyal students, faithful to their books 
Half-and-half idlers, hardy recusants, 
And honest dunces — of important days, 
Examinations, when the man was weighed 
As in a balance ! of excessive hopes. 
Tremblings withal and commendable fears, 
Smnll j:a',o;'' ics, and triumphs good or bad — 
Let others that know more speak as they 

know. 
Such glory was but little sought by me. 
And little won. Vet from the first crude days 
Of settling time in this untried abode, 
I was disturbed at times by prudent thouglita 
Wishing to hope without a hope, some fear, 
About my future worldly maintenance, 
And, more than all, a strangeness in the 

mind, 
A feeling that I was not for that hour, 
Nor for that place. But wherefore be cast 

down } 
For (not to speak of Reason and her pure 
Reflective acts to fix the moral law 
Deep in the conscience, nor of Christian 

Hope, 
Bowing her head before her sister Faith 
As one far mightier), hitiier 1 had come. 
Bear witness Truth, endowed with holy 

powers 
And faculties, whether to work or feel. 
Oft when the dazzling show no longer new 
Had ceased to dazzle, ofttimes did I quit 
My comrades, leave the crowd, buildings and 

groves, 
y\nd as 1 paced alone the level fields 
Far from those lovely sights and sounds 

sublime 
With whicii I had been conversant, the mind 
Drooped not ; but there into herself return 



5'6 



THE r^ ELUDE. 



With prompt rebound seemed fresh as hert. 

tofore. 
At least f more distmctly recognized 
Her native instincts . let me dare to speak 
A Inghei lanouage, say that now I felt 
What ini-'ependent solaces were mine, 
To mitigrtte the injurious sway of place 
Or circumstance, how far soever changed 
In youti-j, or to be changed in after years. 
As if awakenesd, summoned, roused, con- 
strained, 
I looked for universal things ; perused 
The common countenance of earth and sky : 
Karth, nowhere unembelhshed by some trnca 
Ot th?t first Paradise whence man was 

driven ; 
And sky, whose beauty and branty are ex- 
pressed 
Dy the proud name she bears — the name of 

Heaven. 
I called on both to teach me what thiy 

might; 
Or turning the mind in upon herself 
Pored, watched, expected, listened, spread 

my tlioughts 
And spread them with a wider creeping i felt 
Incumbencies more awful, visitmgs 
Of the Upholder of the tranquil soul 
That tolerates the indignities of 'J'lnie, 
And from the centre of Eternity 
All finite motions overruling, lives 
In glory immutable But peace ! enough 
Here to record that I was mounting now 
To such community with higiiest truth — 
A track pursuing, not untiod l)efore. 
From strict analogies by thought supplied 
Or consciousnesses not to be subdued. 
T(y every natural form, rock, fruit or flower, 
Even the loose stones that cover the high- 
way, 
I gave a moral life : i saw them feel, 
Oi linked them to some feeling : the great 

mass 
T.ay bedded in a quickening soul, and all 
Tliat I beheld respired within ward meaning. 
Add that wliateer of Terror or of Love 
Or Beauty Nature's daily face put on 
From transitory passion, unto this 
I was as sensitive as waters are 
To tile sky's influence in a kindred mood 
Of passion ; was obedient as a lute, 
That waits upon the touches of the wind. 
Unknown, unthought of, yet 1 was most 

rich — 
I had a world about me — 'twas my own ; 
I made it. for it only lived to me, 
Aad to the God who sees into the heart. 



I Such synipalines, though rarely, were be< 
trayed 

' By outward gestures and by visible looks; 
5-(-me called it madness — so indeed it was, 
\[ child-like fruitfuiness in passing joy, 
if steady moods of I'houghtlulness matured 
To inspiration, sort with such a name ; 
If prophecy be maaness ; it things viewed 
B> poets in old time, and higtier up 
By the first men, earth's first inhabitants, 
May in tiiese tutored days no more be seen 
vVith undisordered sight. But leaving this, 
It was no madness, for the bodily eye 
Amid my strongest workings evermore 
Was searching out the lines of difference 
As they lie hid in all external forms. 
Near or remote, minute or vast ; an eye 
Whichj from a tree, a stone, a withered leaf, 
To the broad ocean and the azure heavens 
Spangled with kindred multitudes of stars, 
Could find no surface where its power might 

sleep ; 
Which spake perpetual logic to my soul, 
And by an unrelenting agency 
Did bind my feelings even as in a chain. 

And here, O Friend ! have I retraced my 

life 
Up to an eminence, and told a talc 
Of matters which not falsely may be called 
The glory of my youth Of genius, power. 
Creation, and divinity itself, 
I have been speaking, for my them? has been 
What ])assed within me. Not of outward 

things 
Done visibly for other minds, words, signs, 
Symbols or actions, but of my own heart 
Have 1 been speaking, and my youthful 

mind 

Heavens ! how awful is the might of souls, 
.And what they do within themselves while 

yet 
The yoke of earth is new to them, the world 
Nothing but a wild field where they wer3 

sown 
Tliis is, in truth, hen/ic argument, 
Tins genuine prowess, which I wished U 

touch 
With hand however weak, but in thf main 
It lies far hidden from the reach of words. 
Points have we al! of us within our souls 
Where all stand single ; this I feel, and make 
Breathings for incommunicable powers ; 
But is not each a nif morv to himself ' 
And, therefore, now that we must quit this 

theme, 

1 am not heartless, for there's not a nwn 



TME PRELUDE. 



5^7 



That lives who hath nut known liis god-hke 

hours, 
And feels not what an empire we inherit 
As natural beings in the strength of Nature. 

No more ; for now into a populous plain 
We must descend. A Traveller I am, 
Wliose tale is only of himself ; even so, 
So be it, if the pure of heart be prompt 
'l"o follow and if thou, my honored Friend ! 
Who in these thoughts art ever at my side, 
Support, as heretofore, my fainting steps. 

It hath been told, that when the first de- 
light 
That flashed upon me from this novel show 
Had failed, the mind returned into herself ; 
Yet true it is, that I had made a change 
In climate, and my nature's outward coai 
Changed also slowly and insensibly. 
Full oft the quiet and exalted thoughts 
Of loneliness gave way to empty noise 
And superficial pastimes ; now and then 
Forced labor, and .more frequently forced 

hopes ; 
And, worst of all, a treasonable growth 
Of indecisive judgment, that impaired 
And shook the mind's simplicity — And vet 
This was a gladsome time. Could I behold — 
Who, less insensible than sodden clay 
In a sea-river's bed at ebb of tide, 
Could have beheld — with undelighted heart, 
So many happy youths, so wide and fair 
A congregation in its budc'ing-time 
Of health and hope, and beauty, all at once 
So many divers samples from the growtii 
Of life's sweet season— could have seen un- 
moved 
That micellaneous garland of vvild flowers 
Decking the matron temples of a place 
So famous through the world .-' To me, at 

least, 
It was a goodly prospect; for, in sooth. 
Though I had learnt betimes to stand un- 

propped. 
And independent nnisuig pleased me so 
Tliat spells seemed on me when I was alone, 
Yet could 1 only cleave to solitude 
In lonely places : if a throng was near 
That way I leaned by nature, for my heart 
Was social, and loved idleness and joy 

Not seeking those who might participate 
My deeper pleasures (nay, I had not once. 
Though not unused to mutter lonesome 

songs, 
Even with myself divided such delight, 



Or looked that way for aught that might bX 

clothed 
In human language), easily T passed 
From the remembrances of better things, 
And slipped into the ordinary works 
Of careless youth, unburthencd, unalarmed 
Caverns there were withm my mind whicl 

sun 
Could never penetrate, yet did there not 
Want store of leafy arbors where the light 
Might enter in at will. Companionships, 
Friendships, acquaintances, were welcome 

We sauntered, played, or rioted, we talked 
Unprofitable talk at morning hours ; 
Drifted about along the streets and walks, 
Read lazily in trivial books, went forth 
To gallop through the country in blind zeal 
Of senseless horsemanship, or on the breast 
Of Cam sailed boisterously, and let the stars 
Come forth, perhaps without one quiet 
thought. 

Such was the tenor of the second act 
In this new life. Imagination slept. 
And yet not utterly I could not print 
Ground where the grass had yielded to the 

steps 
Of generations of illustrious men. 
Unmoved. I could not always lightly pass 
Through the same gateways, sleep where 

they had slept. 
Wake where they waked, range that in- 

closure old, 
That garden of great intellects, undisturbed. 
Place also by the side of tins dark sense 
Of noble feeling that those spiritual men, 
Even the great Newton's own etiiereal self, 
Seemed humbled in these precincts thence 

to be 
The more endeared. Their several memo- 
ries here 
(Even like their persons in their portraits 

clothed 
With the accustomed garb of daily life) 
Put on a lowly and a touching grace 
Of more distinct luimanity, that left 
All genuine admiration unimpaired. 

Beside the pleasant Mill of Trompington 
I laughed with Chaucer in the hawtiunn 

shade ; 
Heard him, while birds were warbling, tell 

his tales 
Of amorou.s passion. And that gentle '^arc*. 
Ciiosen by the Muses for their Page of 

State- 



5^8 



THE PRELUDE. 



Sweet Spenser, moving through his clouded 

heaven 
With the moon's beauty and the moon's soft 

pace, 
I called him Brother, Englishman, and 

Friend 1 
Yea, our blind Poet, who, in his later day, 
Stood :iIniost single, uttering odious trutli — 
Darl<ness before, and danger's voice behind. 
Sou! awful— if the earth has ever lodged 
An awful soul — I seemed to see him here 
Familiarly, and in his scholar's dress 
Bounding before me, yet a stripling youth — 
A boy, no better, with liis rosy clieeks 
Angelical, keen eye, courageous lo(jk, 
And conscious step of purity and pride. 
Among the band of my compeers was one 
Whom chance had stationed in tlie very 

room 
Honored by Milton's name. O temperate 

Bard! 
Be it confest that, for the fust time, seated 
Witliin thy innocent lodge and oratory. 
One of a festive circle, I poured out 
Libations, to thy memory drank, till pride 
And gratitude grew dizzy in a brain 
Never excited by the fumes of wine 
Before that hour, or since. Tiien, forth 1 

ran 
From the assembly ; througli a length of 

streets, 
Ran, ostrich-like, to reach our chapel door 
In not a desperate or opprobrious time. 
Albeit long after the importun.ite bell 
Had stopped, with wearisome Cassandra 

voice 
No longer haunting the dark winter night. 
Call back, O Friend ! a moment to thy 

mind, 
The place itself and fashiim of tlie rites. 
With careless ostentaticMi sliouldering up 
My surplice, througii the inferior throng I 

clove 
Of tlie plain Burghers, who in audience 

stood 
On tlie last skirts of their permitted ground, 
Under the pealing organ. Empty thoughts ! 
I am ashamed of them : and that great Bard, 
And thou, O Friend ! who in thy ample 

mind 
Hast placed me high above my best deserts. 
Ye will forgive the weakness of tliat hour, 
In some of its unworthy vanities. 
Brother to many more. 

In this mixed sort 
The months passed on, remissly, not given 

up 



To wilful alienation from the right. 
Or walks of open scandal, but in vagu 
And loose indifference, easy likings, aims 
Of a low pitch — duty and zeal dismissed, 
Yet Nature, or a happy course of things 
Not doing in their stead the needful wofk. 
The memory languidly revolved, the heart 
Reposed in noontide rest, the inner pulse 
Of contemplation almost failed to beat. 
Such life might not inaptly be compared 
To a floating island, an amphibious spot 
Unsound, of spongy texture, yet withal 
Not wanting a fair face of water weeds 
And pleasant flowers. The thirst of living 

praise, [sight 

Fit reverence for the glorious Dead, the 
Of those long vistas, sacred catacombs. 
Where mighty minds lie visibly entombed, 
Have often stirred the heart of youth, and 

bred 
A fervent love of rigorous discipline — 
.'Mas ! such high emotion touched not me. 
Look was there none within these walls to 

shame 
My easy spirits, and discountenance 
'I'heir light composure, far less to instil 
I A calm resolve of mind, firmly addressed 
To puissant efforts. Nor was this the 

blame 
Of others, but my own ; I should, in truth, 
As far as doth concern my single self. 
Misdeem most widely, lodging it elsewjiere : 
For I, bred up 'mid Nature's luxuries. 
Was a spoiled child, and, rambling like the 

wind. 
As 1 had done in daily intercourse 
With those crystalline rivers, solemn heights, 
And moimtains, ranging like a fowl of the 

air, 
I was ill-tutored for captivity ; 
To quit my pleasure, and, from month to 

month. 
Take up a station calmly on the perch 
Of sedentary peace. Those lovely forms 
Had also left less space within my mind, 
Which, wrought upon instinctively, had 

found 
A freshness in those objects of her love, 
A winning power, beyond all other power 
Not that ' I slighted books, — that were to 

lack 
All sense, — but other passions in me ruled. 
Passions, more fervent, making me less 

prompt 
'J'o in-door study than was wise or well. 
Or suited to those years. Yet I, thougij 

used 



THE PR El ^'DE 



519 



In magisterial liberty to rove, 

Culling such flowery of learning as might 

tempt 
A random choice, could shadow forth a 

place 
(If now I yield not to a flattering dream) 
Whose studious aspect should have bent me 

down 
To instanlaneous service , should at once 
Have made me pay to science a'^d to arts 
And written lore, acknowlcdgea my liege 

lord, 
A homage frankly offered up, like that 
Wliich 1 had pa'id to Nature Toil and 

pains 
In this recess, by thoughtful Fancy built, 
Should spread from heart to heart ; and 

stately groves. 
Majestic edifices, should not want 
A corresp!;nding dignity within. 
The congregating temper that pervades 
Our unripe years, not wasted, should be 

taught 
To minister to works of high attempt — 
Works which the enthusiast would perform 

with love. 
Youth should b^ awed, religiously possessed 
With a conviction of the power that waits 
On knowledge, when sincerely sought and 

prized 
For its own sake, on glory and on praise 
If but by labor won, and fit to endure 
The passing day ; should learn to put aside 
Her trappings here, should strip them off 

abashed 
Before antiquity and steadfast truth 
And strong-book mindedness ; and over all 
A hea'thv sound simplicity should reign, 
A seemly plainness, name it what you will, 
Republican or pious 

If these thoughts 
Are a gratuitous emblazonry 
That mocks tiie recreant age u^e live in, 

then 
Be Folly and False-seeming free to affect 
Whatever formal gait of discipline 
Shall raise them highest in their own 

esteem — 
Let them parade among the Schools at will, 
But spare the House of God. Was ever 

known 
The witless sheplierd who persists to drive 
A flock that thirsts not to a pool disliked ? 
A weight must surely hang on days begun 
And ended with such mockery. Be wise, 
Ye Presidents and Deaiis, and, till the spirit 



Of ancient times revive, and youth be 

trained 
At home in pious service, to your bells 
Give seasonable rest, for 'tis a sound 
Hollow as ever vexed the tranquil air, 
And your officious doings bring disgrace 
On the plain steeples of our English Church, 
Whose worsliip, 'mid remotest village trees, 
Suffers for this. Even Science, too, at 

hand 
In daily sight of tliis irreverence, 
Is smitten thence w!th an unnatural taint, 
Loses her just authority, falls beneath 
Collateral suspicion, else unknown. 
This trutli escaped me not, and 1 confess, 
That having 'mid my native liills given loose 
To a schoolboy's vision, I had raised a pile 
Upon the basis of the coming time. 
That fell in ruins round me. Oh, what joy 
To see a sanctuary for our country's youth 
Informed with such a spint as might be 
Its own protection; a primeval grove, 
Where, though the shades with cheerfulness 

were tilled, 
Nor indigent of songs warbled from crowds 
In under-coverts, yet the co-.intenance 
Of tiie who* place should bear a stamp of 

awe ; 
A habitation sober and demure 
For ruminating creatures , a domain 
l-'or quiet things to wander in ; a haunt 
in which the heion should delight to feed 
I!y the shy rivers, and the pelican 
Upon the cypress spire in lonely thought 
Might sit and sun himself. — Alas ! Alas! 
In vain for such solemnity I looked ; 
Mine eyes were crossed by butterflies, ears 

vexed 
liy chattering popinjays ; the inner lirart 
.Seemed trivial, and the impI•e^ses without 
Of a too gaudy region. 

Different sight 
Those venerable Doctors saw of old, 
When all who dwelt within these famou.*: 

walls 
Led in abstemiousness a studious life ; 
When, in forlorn and naked chambers 

cooped 
And crowded, o'er the ponderous books they 

hung 
Like caterpillars eating out their way 
In silence, or with keen devouring noise 
Not to be tracked or fatliered. Princes then 
At matins froze, and couched at curfew- 
time, 
'I'rained up through piety and zeal to priz<i 



520 



THE PRFJ.UDE. 



Spare diet, patient labor, and plain weeds. 

'ieat of Arts I renowned throughout the 

world ! 
Far different service in thos? homely days 
The Muses' modest nurslings underwent 
From their first childhood: in that glorious 

time 
When Learning, like a stranger come from 

far. 
Soundmg through Christian lands her 

trumpet, roused 
Peasant and king , when boys and youths, 

the growtli 
Of ragged villages and crazy huts, 
Forsook their homes, and, errant in the 

quest 
Of Patron, famous school or friendly nook, 
Wiiere, pensioned, tliey in shelter might sit 

down. 
From town to town and through wide scat- 

teretl realms 
Journeyed with ponderous folios in their 

hands ; 
And often, starting from some covert i)lace, 
Saluted the chance comer on the road, 
Crying, " An oboliis, a pcnnv give 
To a poor scholar! " — when illustrious men, 
Lovers of truth, by penury constrained, 
Bucer, Erasmus, or Melancthon, read 
Before the doors or windows of their cells 
By m<jonshinc through mere lack of taper 

hght. 

But peace to vain regrets! We see but 

darkly 
Even when we look behind us, and best 

things 
Are not so pure by nature that they needs 
Must keep to all, as fondly all believe. 
Their highest promise. If the mariner. 
When at reluctant distance he hath passed 
Some tempting island, could but know the 

ills 
That must have fallen upon him had he 

brought 
His bark to land upon the wished-for shore, 
Good cause would oft be his to thank the 

surf 
»A^hose white belt scared him thence, or wind 

that blew 
Inexorably adverse';; for myself 

1 grieve not ; happy is the gowned youth 
Who only misses what I missed, who falls 
No lower than I fell. 

I did not love, 
Judging not ill perliaps, the timid course 
pf our scholastic studies ; could have wished 



To see the river flow with ampler range 
And freer pace; but more, far more, 1 

grieved 
To see displayed among an eager few. 
Who in the field of contest persevered, 
Passions unworihy of youth's generous 

heart 
And mounting spirit, pitiably repaid, 
When so disturbed, whatever palms are 

won. 
From these I turned to travel with the shoal 
Of more unthinking natures, easy minds 
.A.nd pillowy, yet not wanting love that 

makes 
The day pass lightly on, when foresight 

sleeps, 
And wisdom and the pledges interchanged 
With our own inner being are forgot. 

Yet was this deep vacation not given up 
To utter waste. Hitherto 1 had stood 
In my own mind remote from social life, 
(At least from what we commonly so name,) 
Like a lone shepherd on a promontory 
Who lacking occupation looks far forth 
Into the boundless sea, and rather makes 
Than linds what he beholds. And sure it is, 
That this first transit from the smooth de- 
lights 
And wild outlandish walks of simple youth 
To something that resembles an approach 
Towards human business, to a privileged 

world 
Witiiin a world, a midway residence 
With all its inturvcnient imagery, 
Did better suit my visionary mind, 
Far better, than to have been bolted forth, 
Thrust out abruptly into Fortune's way 
.A.mong the conflicts of substantial life ; 
L^y a more just gradation did lead on 
To higher things ; more naturally matured, 
For permanent possession, better fruits, 
Whether of truth or virtue, to ensue. 
In serious mood, but oftener, I confess. 
With playful zest of fancy, did we note 
(Mow could we less ?) the manners and the 

ways 
Of those who lived distinguished by the 

badge 
Of good or ill report ; or those with whom 
By frame of Academic discipline 
We were perforce connected, men whose 

sway 
And known authority of office served 
To set our minds on edge, and did no 
Nor wanted we rich pastime of this kind, 
Found everywhere, but chiefly in the ring 



THE PRELUDE. 



5^* 



Of the grave Elders, men un scoured, gro- 
tesque 
In character, tricked out hke aged trees 
Wliich through the lapse of tlieir infirmity 
Give ready place to any random seed 
That chooses to be reared upon their trunks. 

Here on my view, confronting vividly 
Those shepherd swains whom I had lately 

left. 
Appeared a different aspect of old age ; 
How different ! yet both distinctly marked. 
Objects embossed to catch tlie general eye, 
Or portraitures for special use designed, 
As some might seem, so aptly do they 

serve 
To illustrate Nature's book of rudiments — 
That book upheld as w'lth maternal care 
When she would enter on her tender 

scheme 
Of teachhig comprehension with delight, 
And mingl'ing playful with pathetic 

thoughts 

The surfaces of artificial life 
And manners hncly wrought, the delicate 

race 
Of colors, lurking, gleaming up and down 
Through that state arras woven with silk 

and gold ,* 
This wily interchange of snaky hues, 
Willingly or unwillingly revealed, 
I neither knew nor caied for; and as such 
Were want'ing here, 1 took what might be 

found 
Of less elaborate fabric. At this day 
1 smile, in many a mountain solitude 
Conjuring up scenes as obsolete in freaks 
Of character, in points of wit as broad. 
As aught by wooden images performed 
For entertainment of the gaping crowd 
At wake or fair. And oftentimes do flit 
Remembrances before me of old men — 
Old humorists, who have been long in their 

graves, 
And liaving almost in my mind put off 
Their human names, have into phantoms 

passed 
3f texture midway between life and books. 

I play the loiterer : 'tis enough to note 
That here in dwarf proportions were ex- 
pressed [strifes 
The limbs of the great world ; its eager 
Collaterally portrayed, as in mock fight, 
A tournament of blows, some hardly dealt 
Thougli -^liort cf mortal combat , and 
whate'er 



Might- in this pageant be supposed to hit 
An artless rustic's notice, this way less, 
More that way, was not wasted upon me. 
And yet the spectacle may well demand 
A more substantial name, no mimic show 
Itself a living part of a live whole, 
A creek in the vast sea •, for all degrees 
And shapes of spurious fame and short lived 

praise 
Here sate in state, and fed with daily alms 
Rt;tainers won away from solid good , 
And here was Labor, his own bond-slave; 

Hope, 
That never set the pains aga'nst the prize ; 
klleness halting with liis weary clog, 
And poor misguided Shame, and witless 

Fear, 
And simple Pleasure foraging for Death ; 
1 ionor misplaced, and Dignity astray ; 
Fc-uds, factions, tiatteries, enmity, and 
guile [ment, 

Murmuring submission, and bald govern- 
(Thc idol weak as the idolater). 
And Decency and Custoni starving Truth, 
And blind Authority beating vvitii his staff 
'ihe child tliat might have led liiir. ; Empti- 
ness 
Folk)Wcd as of good omen, and meek 

Worth 
Ix'ft to herself unheard of and unknown. 

Of these and other kindred notices 
1 cannot say what jiortion is in truth 
'J'lie naked recollection of that time, 
And what may rather have been called t« 

hie 
r.v after meditation. But delight 
'! hat, in an easy temper lulled asleep, 
Is still with Innocence its own reward. 
This was not wanting. Carelessly I roamed 
.\s through a wide museum from whose 

stores 
A casual rarity is singled out 
.And has its brief perusal, then gives way 
To others, all supplanted in their turn ; 
Till 'mid this crowded neighborhood of 

things 
That are by nature most unneighborly, 
'J'he head turns round and cannot right it- 
self ; 
And though an aching and a barren sense 
Of gay confusion still be uppermost, 
With few wise longings and but little love, 
Vet to the memory something cleaves at 

last, 
Whenci- profit may be drawn in times \M 
come. 



:2i 



THE PRELUDE. 



Thus in submissive idleness, my Friend ! I Eiglit months ! rolled pleasingly away ; thj 
The laboring time of autumn, winter, I ninth 

spring, ' Came and returned me to my native hills. 



BOOK FOURTH. 



SUMMER VACATION. 

Bright was the summer's noon when 

quickening steps 
Followed each otiier till a dreary moor 
Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon 

whose top 
Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge, • 
I overlooked the bed of Windermere. 
Like a vast river, stretching in the sun. 
With exultation, at my feet I saw 
Lake, islands, promontories, gleaming 

bays, 
A universe of Nature's fairest forms 
Proudly revealed with instantaneous burst, 
Magnificent, and beautiful, and gay. 
1 bounded down the hill shouting aman 
For the old Ferryman ; to the shout the 

rocks 
Replied, and when the Charon of the flood 
Had stayed his oars, and touched tiie jutting 

pier, 
I did not step into the well-known boat 
Witliout a cordial greeting. Thence with 

speed 
Up the familiar hill I took my way 
Towards that sweet Valley * where I had 

been reared ; 
'Twas but a short hour's walk, ere veering 

round 
I saw the snow-white church upon her hill 
Sit like a thronkl Lady, sending out 
A gracious look all over her domain. 
Yon azure smoke betrays the lurking town ; 
With eager footsteps I advance and reach 
The cottage threshold where my journey 

closed. 
Clad welcome had I, with some tears, per- 
haps. 
From my old Dame, so kind and motherly. 
While she perused me with a parent's 

pride. 
The thoughts of gratitude shall fall like 

dew 
Upon thy grave, good creature I While my 

heart 
Can beat never will I forget thy name. 



* Hawksheadf 



Heaven's blessing be upon thee where thou 

liest 
After thy innocent and busy stir 
In narrow cares, tiiy little daily growth 
Of calm enjoyments, after eighty years, 
And more than eighty, of untroubled life, 
Childless, yet by the strangers to thy blood 
Honored with little less than filial love. 
Wliat joy was mine to see thee once again, 
Thee and thy dwelling, and a crowd of 

things 
About its narrow precincts all beloved. 
And many of them seeming yet my own I 
Why sliould I speak of what a thousand 

hearts 
Have felt, and every man alive can guess ? 
The rooms, the court, the garden were no 

left 
Long unsaluted, nor the sunny seat 
Round the stone table under the dark pine, 
Friendly to studious or to festive hours ; 
Nor that unruly child of mountain birth, 
The famous brook, who, soon as he was 

boxed 
Within our garden, found himself at once, 
As if by trick insidious an.d unkind. 
Stripped of his voice and left to dimple 

down 
(Without an effort and without a will) 
A channel paved by man's officious care. 
I looked at him and smiled, and smiled 

again. 
And in the press of twenty thousand 

thoughts, 
" Ha," quoth I, "pretty prisoner, are you 

there ! " 
Well might sarcastic fancy then have 

whispered, 
" An emblem here behold of thy own life; 
In its late course of even days with all 
Their smooth enthralment ; " but the heart 

was full, 
Too full for that reproach. My aged Dame 
Walked proudly at my side : she guided 

me ; 
I willing, nay — nay, wishing to be led. 
The face of every neighbor whom 1 met 
Was like a volume to me ; some wert 

hailed 



THE PRELUDE. 



523 



Upon the road, some busy at their work, 
Unceremonious greetings interchanged 
\Vitli half the length of a long field between. 
Among my schoolfellows, I scattered round 
..ike recognitions, but with some constraint 
\ttended, doubtless, with a little pride, 
But with more sliame, for my habil.m^nts, 
The transformation wrought by gay attire. 
Not less delighted d'd 1 take my place 
Vt our domestic table : and, dear Friend ! 
in das endeavor suvply to rck.t^ 
A Poet's history, may I leave untold 
■^he thankfulness with which 1 laid me 

down 
In my accustomed bed, more welcome now 
Tcrliaps than if it had been more desired 
Or been more often thought of with regret ; 
That lowly bed whence 1 had heard the 

wind 
Roar, and the rain beat hard ; where I so 

oft 
Had lain awake on summer nights to watch 
The moon in splendor couched among the 

leaves 
Of a tall ash, that near our cottage stood ; 
Had watched h. r with fixed eyes while to 

and fro 
In the dark summit of the wavering tree 
She rocked with every impulse of the breeze. 

Among the favorites whom it pleased me 

well 
To see again, was one by ancient right 
Our inmate, a rough terrier of the hills ; 
The birth and call of nature pre-ordained 
To hunt tiie badger and unearth the fox 
Among the impervious crags, but having 

been 
From youth our own adopted, he had passed 
Into a gentler service. And when first 
Tlie boyish spirit flagged, and day by day 
Along my veins I kindled with the stir. 
The fermentation, and the vernal heat 
Of poesy, affecting private shades 
Lick a sick Lover, then this dog was used 
I'o watch me, an attendant and a friend. 
Obsequious to my steps earlv and late. 
Though often of such dilatory walk 
Tired, and uneasy at the halts I made. 
A hundred times when, roving high and 

low, 
I have been harassed with the toil of verse, 
Much pains and little progress, and at once 
Some lovely Image in the song rose up 
Full-formed, like Venus rising from the 

sea ; 
Then have 1 darted forwards to let loose 



My hand upon his back with stormy joy, 
Caressing him again and yet again. 
And when at evening on the public way 
I sauntered, like a river murmuring 
And talking to itself when all things else 
Are still, the creature trotted on before; 
Such was his custom ; but whene'er he met 
A passenger approaching, he would turn 
To give me tiinely notice, and straightway. 
Grateful for that admonishment, I hushed 
My voice, composed my gait, and, with the 

air 
And mien of one whose thoughts are free, 

advanced 
To give and take a greeting tliat might 

save 
My name from piteous rumors, such as 

wait 
On men suspected to be crazed in brain. 

Those walks well worthy to be prized and 

loved — 
Regretted ! — that word, too, was on my 

tongue, 
But they were richly laden with all t^ood. 
And cannot be remembered but with 

thanks 
And-gratitude, and perfect joy of heart — 
Those walks in all their freshness now came 

bfick 
Like a returning Spring. When first I 

made 
Once more the circuit of our little lake. 
If ever happiness hath lodged with man, 
That day consummate happiness was mine, 
Wide-spreading, steady, calm, contempla- 
tive. 
The sun was set, or setting, when I left 
Our cottage door, and evening soon brought 

on 
A sober hour, not winning or serene. 
For cold and raw the air was, and untunea 
But as a face we love is sweetest then 
When sorrow damps it, or, whatever look 
It chance to wear, is swcetes*; if the heart 
Have fullness in herself ;^ even so with me 
It fared that evening. Gently did my soul 
Put off her veil, and, self-transmuted, stood 
Naked, as in the presence of her God. 
While on I walked, a comfort seemed to 

touch 
A heart th.at had not been disconsolate : 
Strength came where weakness was not 

known to be. 
At least not felt ; and restoration canie 
Like an intruder knocking at the door 
Of unacknowledged weariness. I took 



524 



THE PRELUDE. 



The balance, and with firm hand weighed 

myself. 
^Of that external scene which round me 

lay, 
Little in this abstraction, did I see : 
Remembered less ; but I had inward hopes 
And sweUings of the spirit, was wrapt and 

soothed, 
Conversed with p-omises, had glimmering 

views 
How life pervades the undecaying mind ; 
How the immortal soul with God-like 

power 
Informs, creates, and thaws the deepest 

sleep 
That time can lay upon her : how on earth, 
Man, if he do but live within the light 

high endeavors, daily spreads abroad 
His being armed with strength that cannot 

fail. 
Nor was there want of milder thoughts, of 

love. 
Or innocence, and holiday repose ; 
.Add more than pastoral quiet, 'mid the stir 
Of boldest projects, and a peaceful end 
At last, or glorious, by endurance won. 
']hus musing, in a wood 1 sate me down 
Alone, continuing there to muse ; the 

slopes [spread 

And heights meanwhile were slowly over- 
With darkness, and before a rippling bieeze 

1 he long lake lengthened c ut its hoary line, 
And in the sheltered coppice where 1 sate, 
Around me from among the hazel leaves, 
Now here, now there, moved by the strag- 
gling wind. 

Came ever and anon a breath-like sound, 
Ou ck as the pantings of the faithful dog. 
The off and on companion of my walk ; 
And such, at times, believing them to be, 
1 turned my head to look if he were there ; 
Then into solemn thought I passed once 
more. 

A freshness also found I at this tii 
In human Life, the daily life of those 
Whose occupations really I loved ; 
The peaceful scene oft filled me with sur- 
prise, 
Changed like a garden in the heat of spring 
After an eight-days' absence. For (to 

omit 
The things which were the same and yet 
appeared 
• Far otherwise) amid this rural solitude, 
A narrow Vale where each was known to 
all, 



'Twas not indifferent to a youthful mind 
To mark some sheltering bower or sunny 

nook. 
Where an old man had used to sit alone. 
Now vacant ; pale-faced babes whom 1 had 

left 
In arms, now rosy prattlers at the feet 
Ot a pleased grandame tottering up and 

down ; 
And growing girls whose beauty, filched 

away 
With all its pleasant promises, was gone 
To deck some slighted playmate's homely 

cheek. 
Yes, I had something of a subtler sense, 
And often locking round was moved to 

smiles 
Such as a delicate work of humor breeds ; 
I read, without design, the opinions, 

thoughts, 
Of those plain-living people now observed 
With clearer knowledge ; with another eye 
I saw the quiet woodman in the woods. 
The sheph.erd roam the hills. With new 

delight, 
This chiefiv, did I note my gray haired 

Dame ;' 
Saw her go forth to church or other work 
Oi" state equipped in monumental trim ; 
.'-ihort velvet cloak (her bonnet of the like), 
A mantle such as Spanish Cavaliers 
Wore in o'.d time. Her smooth domestic 

life, 
Affectionate without disquietude. 
Iter talk, her business, pleased me ; and no 

less 
Tier clear though shallow stream of piety 
That ran on Sabbath days a fresher course ; 
With tlioughts unfelt till now 1 saw her 

read 
Her r.ible on hot Sunday afternoons, 
And loved the book, when she had dropped 

asleep 
And made of it a pil'ow for her head. 

Nor less do I remember to have felt, 
Distinctly manifested at this time, 
A human-heartedness about my love 
For objects hitherto the absolute wealth 
Of my own private being and no more ; 
Which I had loved, even as a blessed 

spirit 
Or Angel, if he were to dwell on earth, 
Might love in individual happiness. 
Hut now there opened on me other 

thoughts 
Of change, congratulation or regret, 



II F PRELUDE. 



A pensive feeling ! It spread far and wide ; 
The trees, the niountains shared it, and the 

brooks. 
The stars of Heaven, now seen in their old 

Iiaunts — 
Wiiite Siiiiis gliltciing o'er the southern 

crags, 
Orion with his belt, and those fair Seven, 
Acquaintances of every little child, 
And Jupiter, my own beloved star ! 
Whatever shadings of mortality, 
Whatever imports from the world of death 
Had come amo'g tiiese objects heretofore, 
Wore, in tlie main, of mood less tender : 

strong, 
Deep, g'oomy were they, and severe; the 

scatterings 
Of awe or tremulous dread, that had given 

way 
In later youth to yearnings of a lev* 
Enthusiastic, to delight and hope. 

As on? who hang<; down bending from 
the side 
Of a slow-moving boat, upon the breast 
Of a still water, solacing himself 
With such discoveries as his eye can make 
Beneath him in the bottom of die deep. 
Sees many beaut ous sights — weeds, fishes, 

flowers, 
Grots, pebbles, roots of trees, and fancies 

ni3 e, 
Yet often is oerplexed, and cannot part 
The shadow from the substance, rocks and 

sky. 
Mountains and clouds, reflected in the 

depth 
Of the clear flood, from things which there 
abide [gleam 

In their true dwelling', no'. is crossed by 
Of his own image, bv a sunbeam now, 
And wavering motions sen' ho knows not 

whenre, 
Impediments that make his task more 

sweet ; 
Such plea- ant office ..'ve we long pursued 
Incumbent o'er the surface of past time 
With like success, nor often have appeared 
Shapes fairer or less doubtfully discerned 
Than these to which the Tale, indulgent 

Friend ! 
Would now direct thy notice. Yet in spite 
Of pleasure won, and knowledge not with- 
held, 
There was an inner falling off — I loved, 
Loved deeply all that had been loved be- 
fore. 



More deeply even than ever : but a swarm 
Of heady schemes jostling each other 

gawds, 
And feast and dance, and public revelry. 
And sports and games (too gratelul m tliem- 

selves, 
Yet in themselves less gratelul, I believe. 
Than as they were a badge glossy and 

fresh 
Of manliness and freedom) all conspired 
To lure my mind fioni firm habitual quest 
Of feeding pleasures, to depress the zeal 
And damp those yearnings which had once 

been mine— 
A wild, unworldly-minded youth, given up 
To his own eager tlioughts it would de- 
mand 
Some skill, and longer time than may be 

sjDared, 
To paint these vanities, and how they 

wrought 
In haunts where they, till now, had been 

unknown. 
It seemed the very garments that I wore 
Preyed on my strength, and stopped the 

quiet stream 
Of selflorgetfulness. 

Yes, that heartless chase 
Of trivial pleasures was a poor exchange 
For books and nature at that early age. 
'Tis true, some casual knowledge might be 

gained 
Of ciiaracter or life ; but at that time. 
Of manners put to school 1 took small nute, 
And all my deeper passions lay clsewhe.e. 
Far better had it been to exalt the mind 
By solitary study, to uphold 
Intense desire through meditative peace; 
And yet, for chastisement of these regrets. 
The memory of one particular hour 
Doth here rise up against me. 'M d a 

throng 
Of maids and youths, old men, and matrons 

staid, 
A medley of all tempers, I had passed 
The night in dancing, gayety, and mirth, 
With din of instruments and shuffling. feet, 
And glancing forms, and tapers glittering, 
And unaimed prattle flying up and down , 
Spirits upon the stretch, and here and 

there 
Slight shocks of young love-hking inter- 
spersed, 
Whose transient pleasure mounted to the 

head, 
And tingled through the veins. Ere we re 

tired, 



THE PRELUDE. 



The reck had crowed, and now the eastern 

Was kindhng, not unseen, from humble 

copse 
And open field, through which the pathway 

wound, 
And homeward led my steps. Ma'^nificent 
Tlie morning rose, in memorable jioiup, 
Glorious as e'er I had beheld — in iiont, 
The sea lay laughing at a distance , near. 
The sohd mountains shone, bright as the 

clouds, 
Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean 

light ; 
And in the mead/iws and the lower grounds 
Was all the sweetness of a common dawn- 
Dews, vapors, and the melody of birds. 
And laborers going forth to till t!ie fields. 
Ah ! need 1 say, dear Friend ! that to tie 

brim 
My heart was full ; I made no vows, but 

vows 
Were tlien made for me , bond unknown to 

me 
Was given, that I should bo, else sinning 

greatly, 
A dedicatecl Spirit. On I walked 
In thankful blessedness, which yet survives. 

Strange rendezvous ! My mind was at 
that time 

A parti-colored show of grave and gay, 

Solid and light, sho! t-sighted and profound ; 

Of inconsiderate habits and sedate. 

Consorting in one mansion unreproved. 

The worth I knew of powers that I pos- 
sessed, 

Though slighted and too oft misused. Be- 
sides, 

That summer, swarming as it did with 
thoughts 

Transient and idle, lacked not intervals 

When Folly from the frown ot fleeting 
Time 

Shrunk, ana the mind experienced in her- 
self 

Confermity as just as that of old 

To the end and written spirit of God's 
works, 

Whether held forth in Nature or in Man, 

Through pregnant vision, separate or con- 
joined. 

When from our better selves we have too 
long 
Been parted by the hurrying world, and 
droop, 



Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, 
How gracious, how bonign, is Solitude; 
Ho.v potent a mere image of lier sway ; 
Most potent when impressed upon the 

mind 
With an appropriate human centre— hermit, 
Deep in the bosom of the wilderness ; 
Votary (in vast cathedral, where no foot 
Is treading, where no other face is seen) 
Kneeling at prayers , or watchman on the 

top 
0( lighthouse, beaten by Atlantic waves; 
Or a> the soul ot that great Power is met 
Sometimes embodied on a public road, 
Wiicn, for the night deserted, it assumes 
A character of quiet more profound 
Than pathless wastes. 

Once, when those summer months 
Were flown, and autumn brought its annual 

show 
Of oars witii oars contending, sa.ls with 

sails. 
Upon Wmander's spacious breast, it 

chanced 
That— alter I had left a flower-decked room 
(Whose in-door pastime, lighted up, sur- 
vive;! 
To a late hour), and spirits overwrought 
Were making night do penance for a day 
Spent in a round of strenuous idleness — 
My homeward course led up a long ascent, 
Where the road's watery surface, to the top 
Of that shnr]-) rising, glittered to the moon 
And bore the semblance of another stieam 
Stealing with silent lapse to join the brook 
That murmured in the vale. All else was 

still; 
No living thing appeared in earth or air, 
And, save the flowing water's peaceful voice, 
Sound there was none — but, lo ! an uncouth 

shape, 
Shown by a sudden turning of the road, 
So near tliat, slipping back into the sliade 
Of a thick hav/thorn, 1 could mark him w^'^ll. 
Myself unseen He was of stature tall, 
A span above man's common measure, tall. 
Stiff, lank, and upright ; a more meagre 

man 
Was never seen before by night or day. 
Long were his arms, pallid liis hands , his 

nioi'.th 
Looked gliastly in the moonlight . from be- 
hind, 
A mile-stone propped him ; I could also ken 
That he was clothed in military garb, 
Though faded, yet entire. Companionlesii 



THE PRELUDE. 



S^7 



No dog attending, by no staff sustained, 
He stool, and in his very di t-ss appeared 
A desolation, a simplicity. 
To which the trappings of a gaudy world ( 
Make a strange back-ground. From his i 

lips, ere long, 
Issued low muttered sounds, as if of pain 
Or some uneasy tliought ; yet still his form 
Kept the same awful steadiness — at his feet 
His shadow lay, and moved not. From 

self-blame 
Not wholly free, I watched him thus ; at 

length 
Subduing my heart's specious cowardice, 
I lelt the shady nook where I had stood 
And hailed him. Slowly from his resting- 
place 
He rose, and with a lean and wasted arm 
In measured gesture lifted to his head 
Returned my salutation ; then resinned 
His station as before; and when 1 asked 
His history, the veteran, in reply, 
Was neitiier slow nor eager , but, unmoved. 
And with a quiet uncomplaining voice, 
A stately air of mild indifference. 
He told in few plain words a soldier's tale — 
That in the Tropic Islands he had served. 
Whence he had landed scarcely three weeks 

past ; 
That on his landing he had been dismissed. 
And now was travelling towards his native 

home. 
This heard, I said, in pity, "Come with 

me." 
He stooped, and straightway from the 

ground took up 
An oaken staff by me yet unobserved — 
A staff which must have dropped from his 

slack hand 
And lay till now neglected in t'-ie grass. 
Though weak his step and cautious, he 

appeared 
To travel without pain, and I beheld, 
With an astonishment but ill suppressed, 



His ghostly figure moving at my side ; 
N(^r could I, while we journeyed thus, for- 
bear 
To turn from present hardslvps to the past, 
And speak of war, battle, and pestilence ? 
Sprinkling this talk with questions, better 

sv)ared. 
On what he might himself have seen or (clt. 
He all the wliile was in demeanor calm, 
Concise in answer ; solemn and sublime 
He might have seemed, but that in all he 

said 
There was a strange half-absence, as of < ne 
Knowing too well the importance of his 

theme, 
But feeling it no longer. Our discourse 
Soon ended, and together cu we passed 
In silence through a wood cloomy and still. 
Up-turning, then, along an open field. 
We reached a cottage. At the door 1 

knocked. 
And earnestly to charitable care 
Commended him as a j^oor friendless man, 
Belated and by sickness overcome. 
Assured that now the traveller would repose 
In comfort, 1 entreated that henceforth 
He would not linger in the public ways, 
I>ut ask lor timely furtherance and help 
Such as his state required At this reproof. 
With the same ghastly mildness in his look, 
He said, ■' My trust is in the God of Heaven, 
And in the eye of him who passes me ! " 

The cottage door was speedily unbarred. 
And now the soldier touched his hat once 

more 
With his lean hand, and in a faltering voice, 

Whose tone bespake reviving interests 
Till. then unfelt, he thanked me ; I returned 
The farewell blessing of the patient man, 
And so we j.-arled. Back I cast a look, 
.And lingered near the door a little spare, 
Then soug'-t with quiet heart my distart 
home. 



BOOK FIFTH. 



BOOKS. 



When Contemplation, like the night<alm 

felt 
Through earth and sky, spreads widely, and 

sends deep 
Into the soul its tranquillizing power. 
Even then I sometimes grieve for thee, 

Man, 



EarllTs paramount Creature ? not so much 

for woes 
That thou endurest ; heavy though tiiat 

weight be, 
Cloud-iikc it mounts, or touched with light 

divine 
Doth melt away> but for those palms 

achic'.ed, 
Througli length o! tinw;, by patient c.\eiasQ 



5^S 



THE PRELUDE. 



O study and hard thought ; there, there, it 

is 
That sadness finds its fuol Hitherto, 
In progress tluuugh this Verse, my mind 

hath looked 
Upon the spcai^ing face of earth and heaven 
As lier prime teaclier, mtercourse with man 
Established by tiie sovereign Intellect, 
Who through that bodily image hath dif- 

iuscd, 
As might appear to the eye of fleeting time, 
A dcatliless spirit. Thou also, man ! hast 

\vi ought, 
For conmiercc of thy nature with herself, 
Tiungs that aspiu to unconquerable life ; 
And yet we tecl— we cannot choose but 

teel— 
That they must ponsh. Tremblings of the 

heart 
It gives, to think that our immortal being 
No more shall need such garments ; and yet 

man. 
As long as h^ shall be the cliild of earth, 
Might almost '• weep to have "' what he may 

lose. 
Nor be himself extinguished, but survive, 
Abject, depressed, forlorn, disconsolate. 
A thought IS with me sometimes, and I 

say,— 
Should th-' whole frame of earth by inward 

throes [scorch 

Be wrenched, or fire come down from tar to 
Her pleasant habitations, and dry up 
Old Ocean, in his bed left singed and bare. 
Yet would 111-' l.vmg Presence still subsist 
Victorious, and composure would ensue. 
And kmdlings like the morning — presage 

sure 
Of day returning and of life revived. . 
But all the meditations of mankind. 
Yea, all the adamantine holds of truth 
I^y reason built, or passion, which itself 
Is highest reason in a soul sublime ; 
'J'he consecrated works of Bard and Sage, 
Sensuous or intellectual, wrought by men, 
Twin laborers and heirs of the same hopes ; 
Where would they be ? Oh ! why hath not 

the Mind 
3ome element to stamp her image on 
In nature somewhat nearer to her own ? 
Why, gitted with such powers to send 

abroad 
Her spirit, must it lodge in shrines so frail ? 

One day, when from my lips a like com- 
plaint 
Had fallen in presence of a studious friend, 



He with a smile made answer, that in truth 
Twas going far to seek disquietude : 
I5ut on the front of his reproof confessed 
That he himself had oftentimes given way 
To kindred hauntings. Whereupon 1 told, 
That once in the stillness of a summer's 

noon, 
While I was seated in a rocky cave 
By the sea-side, perusing, so it chanced. 
The famous history oT the errant knight 
Recorded by Cervantes, these same thoughts 
Beset me, and to luight unusual rose. 
While listlessly I sate, and, having closed 
The book, had turned my eyes toward the 

wide sea. 
On poetry and geometric truth. 
And tl;eir high privilege of lasting life. 
From all internal mjiiry exempt, 
I mused ; upon these cliiefly : and at length. 
My senses yielding to the sultry air. 
Sleep seized me, and 1 passed into a dream. 
I saw before me stretched a boundless plain 
Of sandy wilderness, all black and void, 
•And as 1 looked around, distress and fear 
Came creeping over me, v/hen at my side. 
Close at my side, an uncouth shape ap- 
peared 
Upon a dromedary, mounted high. 
He seemed an Arab of the Bedouin tribes: 
A lance he bore, and underneath one arm 
A stone, and in the ojiposite hand a shell 
Of a surpassing brightness. At the sight 
Much I rejoiced, not doubting but a guide 
Was present, one who witli unerring skill 
Would through the desert lead me ; and 

while yet 
1 looked and looked, self-questioned what 

this freight 
Which the new comer carried through the 

waste 
Could mean, the Arab told me that the 

stone 
(To give it in the language of the dream) 
Was "Euclid's Elements;" and "This," 

said he, 
" Is something of more worth ; " and at the 

word 
Stretched forth the shell, so beautifid in 

shape. 
In color so resplendent, with command 
That I should hold it to my ear. 1 did so. 
And heard that instant in an unknown 

tongue, 
Which yet I understood, articulate sounds, 
A loud prophetic blast of harmony ; 
An Ode, in passion uttered, which foretold 
Destruction to the children of the earth 



THE PJ^ ELUDE. 



529 



By deluge, now at hand. No sooner ceased 
The son^, tlian the Arab with cahn look de- 
clared 
That all would come to pass of which the 

voice 
Had given forewarning, and that he himself 
Was going then to bury those two books : 
The one that held acquaintance with the 

stars, 
And wedded soul to soul in purest bond 
Of reason, undisturbed by space or time ; 
The other that was a god. yea many gods. 
Had voices more than all the winds, with 

power 
To exhilarate the spirit, and to soothe, 
Thiough every clime, the heart of human 

kind. [seem, 

While this was uttering, strange as it may 
I wondered not, althougli 1 plainly saw 
Tlie one to be a stone, tlie other a shell ; 
Nor doubted once but that they both were 

books, 
Having a perfect faith in all that passed. 
Far stronger, now, grew the desire I felt 
To cleave unto this man ; but when I prayed 
To share his enterprise, he hurried on 
Reckless of me : 1 followed, not unseen. 
For oftentimes he casv a backward look, 
Grasping his twofold treasure. — Lance in 

rest, 
He rode. I keeping pace with him ; and now 
He, to my fancy, had become the knight 
Whose tale Cervantes tells ; yet not the 

kni;;ht, 
But was an Arab of the desert too ; 
Of these was neither, and was both at once. 
His countenance, liieanwhilc, grew more 

disturbed ; 
And, looking backwards when he looked, 

mine eyes 
Saw, over half the wilderness diffused, 
A bed of glittering light : I asked the cause : 
*' It is," said he. " the waters of the deep 
Gathering upon us;" c^uickening then the 

pace 
Of the unwieldy creature he bestrode, 
He left me : 1 called after him aloud ; 
He heeded not ; but, with his twofold charge 
Still in his grasp, before me, full in view, 
Went hurrying o'er the illimitable waste. 
With the fleet waters of a drowning world 
In cliase of hiTi ; whereat I waked in terror. 
And saw the sea before me, and the book, 
In which I had been reading, at my side. 

Full often, taking from the world of sleep 
This .irab phantom, which 1 thus beheld, 



This semi-Quixote, I to him have given 
A substance, fancied him a living man, 
A gentle dweller in the desert crazed 
By love and leeling, and internal thought 
Protracted among endless solitudes ; 
Have shaped him wandering upon this 

quest! 
Nor have I pitied him ; but rather felt 
Reverence was due to a beins thus employ- 
ed ; 
And thought that, in the blind and awful 

lair 
Of such a madness, reason did lie couched. 
Enow there are on earth to take in charge 
Their wives, their childien, and their virgin 

loves, 
Or whatsoever else the heart holds dear ; 
Enow to stir for these ; yea, will I say. 
Contemplating in soberness the approach 
Of an event so dire, by signs in earth 
Or heaven made manifest, that I could 

share 
That maniac's fon^ anxiety, and go 
Upon like en and. Ottentimes at least 
Me hath such strong entrancement over- 
come, 
When 1 have held a volume in my hand. 
Poor earthly casket of immortal verse, 
Shakespeare, or Milton, laborers divine ! 

Great and benign, indeed, must be the 

power 
Of living nature, which could thus so long 
Detain me from tiie best of other guides 
And dearest helpers, left untlianked, un- 

praised, 
Even in tiie time of lisping infancy ; 
.And later down, m prattling childlioodeven, 
While -I was travelling back among those 

days 
How could I ever play an ingrate's part? 
Once more should 1 have made those bow 

ers resound. 
By inter;v.:ngling strains of thankfulness 
\Vith their own thoughtless melodies ; at 

least 
It might have well beseemed me to repeat 
Some simply fashioned tale, to tell again, 
In slender accents of sweet verse, some lale 
That did bewitch me then, and soothes me 

now 
O Friend i O Poet ! brother of my soul, 
Think not that 1 could pass along un- 
touched 
By these remembrances. Yet wherefort 

spenk ? 
Why call upon a few weak words to say 



S30 



THE PRELUDE. 



What is already written in the hearts 

C)l all that breatiie ?— wliat in the path of 

all 
Props daily from the tonc;ue of every child, 
Wherever man is touiid ? The trickling 

tear 
Upon the check of listcninc; Infancy 
I'lociainis it, and the insuperable look 
That drinks as if it never could be lull. 

Tha' portion of my story I shall leave 
There registered : wliatever else of power 
Or pleasure sown, or fostered thus, may be 
I'eculiar to myself, let that remain 
Where still it works, though hidden from all 

search 
Among the depths of time. Yet is it just 
That here, in memory of all books which 

lay 
Their sure foundations in the heart of man, 
Wiiethei by native prose, or numerous verse, 
Tiiat in the name of all inspired souls — 
From Homer the great Thunderer, from 

the voice 
That loars along the bed of Jewish song, 
And that more varied and elaborate, 
Those trumpet-tones of harmony that shike 
Our shores in England,— from those loltiest 

notes 
Down to the low and wren-like warblings, 

made 
For cottagers and spinners at the wheel, 
And sun-burnt travellers resting tiie'.r tiied 

limbs. 
Stretched under wayside liedge-rows, ballad 

tunes. 
Food for the hungry ears of little ones. 
And of old men who have survived their 

joys — 
'Tis just that in behall- of these, the works. 
And of the men that framed them, whether 

known 
Or sleeping nameless in their scattered 

graves. 
That I should here assert thir rights, attest 
Their honors, and should, once for all, pro- 
nounce 
Their benediction ; speak of them as Pow- 
ers 
Forever to bs hallowed ; only less. 
For what we are and what we may become. 
Than Nature's self, which is the breath of 

God, 
Or His pure Word by miracle revealed. 

Rarely anti with reluctance would I stoop 
To tra»^sitory themes j yet 1 rejoice, 



And, by these thoughts admonished, wiBj 

pour out r 

Thanks with uplifted heart, that I was 

reared 
Safe from an evil which these days have 

la-d 
Upon the children of the land, a pest / 

That might have dried me up, body ant^ 

soul. 
This verse is dedicate to Nature's self. 
And things that teach as Natuie teaches : 

then. 
Oil I where had be3n the Man, the roeti 

where, 
Where had we been, we two. beloved Friend J 
If in the season of unperilous cho'ce, 
In lieu of wandering, as we d.d, through 

vales 
Kich with mdigenous produce, open grouiul 
Of Fancy, happy pastures ranged at will, 
We had been followed, hourly watched, and 

noosed 
Each in his several melancholy walk 
Stringed like a poor man's heifer at it- 
feed, 
Led thiough the lanes in forlorn servitude; 
Or rather like a stalled ox debarred 
From touch of growing grass, that may not 

taste 
A flower till it have yielded up its sweets 
A prelibation to the mower's scythe. 

Behold the parent hen amid her brood, 
Though fledged and feathered, and well 

pleased to part 
And straggle from her presence, still a 

broc'd, 
And siie herself from the maternal bond 
Still undisciiaiged ; yet doth she little mora 
Tl^.an move with them in tenderness and 

love, 
A centre to the circle which they make ; 
And now and then, alike from need of theirs 
And call of her own natural appetites, . 

She scratches, ransacks up the earth for 

food. 
Which they partake at pleasure. Early 

died 
My honored Mother, she who was the heart 
And hinge of allour learnings and our loves : 
She left us destitute, and, as we might, 
Trooping together. Little suits it me 
'J'o break upon the sabbath of her rest 
With any thought that looks at otherrf 

blame ; 
Nor would I praise her but in perfect love. 
Hence am 1 checked : but let me bolcily say# 



7-HE Tk:^.LUDE. 



531 



In gratitude, and for the sake of truth, 
Unheard by lier, that she, not falsely taught, 
Fetching her goodness rather from times 

past 
Than shaping novelties for times to come, 
Had no presumption, no sucli jealousy, 
Nor did by habit of iier thouglits mistrust. 
Our nature, but had virtual faitli, that He 
Who fills the mother's breast with innocent 

milk 
Doth also for our nobler part provide, 
Under His great correction and control, 
As innocent instincts, and as innocent food ; 
Or draws for minds that are left free to 

trust 
In the simplicities of opening life 
Sweet honey out of spurned or dreaded 

weeds. [pure 

This was her creed, and therefore she was 
From anxious fear of error or mishap, 
And evil, overweeningly so c lied ; 
Was not puffed up by false unnatural hopes, 
Nor seltish with unnecessary cares, 
Nor with impatience from the season asked 
More than its timely produce ; rather loved 
The hours for what they are, than from re- 

Glanced on tl:eir prolV'^es in restless pride. 
Such was she — not from faculties more 

strong 
Than others have, but from the times, per- 
haps, 
And spot in which she lived, and through a 

grace 
Of modest meekness, simple-mindedness, 
A heart that found benignity and hope, 
Being itself benign 

My drift I fear 
Is scarcely obvious : but, that common sense 
May try this modern system by its fruits. 
Leave let me take to place before her sight 
A specimen portrayed with faithful hand. 
F'ull early trained to worship secmliness, 
Tliis model of a child is never known 
lo mix in quarrels; that were far beneath 
Its dignity, with gifts he bubbles o'er 
As generous as a fountain ; selfishness 
May not come near him, nor the little 

throng 
Of flitting pleasures tempt him from his 

path , 
The wandering beggars propagate his name. 
Dumb creatures find him tender as a n 
And natural or supernatural fear. 
Unless it leap upon him in a dream, 
Touches him not. To enhance the wonder, 
see 



How arch his notices, how nice his sense 

Of the ruhculous ; not blind is he 

To the broad follies of the licensed world, 

Yet innocent himself withal, though shrewd, 

And can read lectures upon innocence; 

A miracle of scientific lore. 

Ships he can guide across the pathless sea, 

And tell you all their cunning ; he can ri^ad 

The inside of the earth, and spell the stars,- 

He knows the policies ot foreign lands , 

Can string you names of districts, cities, 

towns, 
The whole world over, tight as beads of dew 
Upon a gossamer thread ; he sifts, he 

weighs , 
All things are put to question ; he must 

live 
Knowing that he grows wiser every day 
Or else not live at all, and seeing too 
Each little drop of wisdom as it falls 
Into the dimpling cistern of his heart: 
For this unnatural growth the trainer blame, 
Pity the tree. —Poor human vanity, 
Wert thou extinguished, little would be 

left 
Which he could truly love ; bat how es« 

cape 1 
For, ever as a thought of purer birth 
Rises to lead him toward a better clime. 
Some intermeddler still is on the watch 
To drive him back, and pound him, like a 

stray. 
Within the pinfold of his own conceit. 
Meanwhile old giandame earth is grieved to 

find 
The playthings, which her love designed for 

him, 
Unthought of : in their woodland beds th» 

flowers 
W' ceji, and the river sides are all forlorn. 
Oh ! give us once again the wishing cap 
Of Fortunatus, and the invisible coat 
Of Jack the Giant-killer, Robin Hood, 
And Sabra in the forest with St. George! 
The child, whose love is here, at least, dotb 

reap 
One precious gain, that he forgets himself. 

These mighty workmen of our later age, 

Who, with a broad highway, have over- 
bridged 

The forward chaos of futurity, 

Tamed to their bidding , they who have the 
skill 

To manage books, and things, and mak« 
them act 

On infant minds as surely as the sun 



532 



'J'HF PRELUDE, 



Deals with a flower • the keepers of our 

time, 
The guides and wardens of our faculties, 
?.a£;es who in their prescience would control 
All accidents, and to the very road 
Which they have fashioned would confine 

us down, 
Like engines ; when will their presumption 

learn, 
That in the unreasoning progress of the 

world 
A wiser spirit is at work for us, 
A better eye than theirs, most prodigal 
Of blessings, and most studious of our good, , 
Even in what seem our most unfruitful \ 

hours ? 

There was a Boy : ye knew him well, ye 

cliffs 
And islands of Winander ! — many a time 
At evening, when the earliest stars began 
To move along the edges of the hills, 
Rising or setting, would he stand alone 
Beneath the trees or by the glimmering 

lake. 
And there, with fingers interwoven, both 

hands 
Pressed closely palm to palm, and to his 

mouth 
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, 
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls. 
That they might answer him ; and they 

would shout 
Across the watery vale, and shout again. 
Responsive to his call with quivering peals, 
(\nd long halloos and screams, and echoes 

loud, 
Redoubled and redoubled, concourse wild 
Of jocund din ; and, when a lengthened 

pause 
Of silence came and baffled his best skill, 
Then sometimes, in that silence while he 

hung 
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 
Has carried far into his heart the voice 
Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene 
Would enter unawares intd his mind. 
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, 
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, re- 
ceived 
Into the bosom of the steady lake. 

This Boy was taken from his mates, and 

died 
In childhood, ere he was full twelve years 

old. 
Fair is the spot, most beautiful the vale 



Wliere he was born ; the grassy chuc' yard 

hangs 
Upon a slope above the village school. 
And through that churchyard when my way 

has led 
On summer evenings, I believe that there 
A long lialf hour togetlier I have stood 
Mute, looking at the grave in which he lies! 
Even now appears before the mind's clear 

eye 
That self-same village church ; I see her sit 
(The throned Lady whom erewhile w* 

hailed) 
On her green hill, forgetful of this Boy 
Who slumbers at her feet, — forgetful, too, 
Of all her silent neighborhood of graves, 
And listening only to the gladsome sounds 
That from the rural school ascending, play 
[5eneath her and about her. May she long 
Behold a race of young ones like to those 
With whom 1 herded ! — (easily, indeed, 
We migiit have fed upon a fatter soil 
Of arts and letters — but be that forgivtw) — 
A race of real children ; not too wise. 
Too learned, or too good ; l)ut wanton, fresh, 
And bandied up and down by love and hate j 
Not unresentful where self-justified ; 
Fierce, moody, patient, ventui ous, modest, 

shy ; 
Mad at their sports like withered leaves in 

winds ; 
Though doing wrong and suffering, and full 

oft 
Bendi^.g beneath our life's mysterious 

weight 
Of jiain, and doubt, and fear, yet yielding 

not 
In hajipiness to the happiest upon earth. 
Simplicity in habits, truth in speech, 
Be these the daily strengtlieners of their 

minds ; 
May books and Nature be their early joy ! 
And knowledge, riglitly honored with that 

name — 
Knowledge not purchased by the loss ot 

power ! 

Well do I call to mind the very week 
Wlien I was first intrusted to the care 
Of that sweet Valley; when its paths, its 

shores, 
And brooks were like a dream of novelty 
To my half-infant thoughts ; that very week^ 
While 1 was roving up and df)wn alone. 
Seeking I knew not what. I clianced to cross 
One of those open fields, which, shaped like 

ears, 



THE PRELUDE. 



533 



Make green peninsulas on Estliwaite's Lake : 
Twilight was csniing on, yet through the 

gloom 
Appeared distinctly on the opposite shore 
A heap of garments, as if left by one 
Who might have there been bathing. Long 

1 watched, 
Jut no one owned them ; meanwhile the 

calm lake 
Grew dark with all the shadows on its breast, 
And, now and then, a fish up-leaping 

snapped 
The breathless stillness. The succeeding 

day, 
Those unclaimed garments telling a plain 

tale 
Drew to the spot an anxious crowd ; some 

looked 
In passive expectation from the shore, 
While from a boat others hung o'er the deep, 
Sounding with grappling irons and long 

poles. 
At last, the dead man, 'mid that beauteous 

scene 
Of trees and hills and water, bolt upriglit 
Rose, with his ghastly face, a spectre shape 
Of terror ; yet no soul-debasing fear. 
Young as I was, a child not nine years old, 
Possessed me, for my inner eye had seen 
Such sights before, among the shining 

streams 
Of faery land, the forest of romance. 
Their spirit hallowed the sad spectacle 
With decoration of ideal grace , 
A dignity, a smoothness, like the works 
Of Grecian art, and purest poesy. 

A precious treasure had I long possessed, 
A little yellow, canvas-covered book, 
A slender abstract of the Arabian talcs ; 
And, from companions in a new abode, 
When first I learnt that this dear prize of 

mine 
Was but a block hewn from a mighty 

quarry — 
That there were four large volumes, laden 

all 
With kindred matter, 'twas to me, in truth, 
A promise scarcely earthly. Instantly, 
With one not richer than myself.. I made 
A covenant that each should lay aside 
The moneys he possessed, and hoard up 

more. 
Till our joint savings had amassed enough 
To make this book our own. Through scv- 

errJ months, 
In spite of all temptation, we preserved 



Religiously that vow ; but firmness failed, 
Nor were we ever masters of our wisl). 

And when thereafter to my father's house 
The holidays returned me, there to find 
That golden store of books winch I had left, 
What joy was mine 1 How often in the 

course (wind 

Of those glad respites, th )ugh a soft west 
Ruffled the waters to the angler's wish, 
For a whole day together, have I lain 
Down by thy side, O Derwent ! murmuring 

stream, 
On the hot stones, and in the glaring sun, 
And there have read, devouring as I read, 
Defrauding the day's glory, desperate ! 
Till with a sudden bound of smart reproach. 
Such as an idler deals with in his shame, 
1 to the sport betook myself again. 

A gracious spirit o'er this earth presides, 
And o'er the heart of man ; invisibly 
It comes, to works of unreproved delight. 
And tendency benign, directing those 
Who care not, know not, think not what they 

do. 
The talcs that charm away the wakeful night 
In .'\ral3v. romances; legends penned 
For solace by dim light of monkish lamps ; 
Fictions, for ladies of their love, devised 
By youthful squires , adventures endless, 

spun 
By the dismantled warrior in old age, 
()ut of the bowels of tiiose very schemes 
In which his youtli did first extravagate ; 
These spread like day, and something in tlie 

shape 
Of these will live till man shall be no more. 
Dumb yearnings, hidden appetites, are ours, 
And t/icy niiist have their food. Our child- 
hood sits. 
Our simple childhood, sits upon a throne 
That hatli more power than all the elements 
I guess not what this tells of Being past, 
Nor what it augurs of the life to come ; 
But so it is, and, in that dubious hour, 
That twilight when we first begin to see 
This dawning earth, to recognize, expect, 
.And, in the long probation that ensues. 
The time of trial, ere we learn to livo 
In reconcilement with our stinted powers, 
To endure this state of meagre vassalage. 
Unwilling to forego, confess, submit. 
Uneasy and unsettled, yoke-fellows 
To custom, mettlesome, and not yet tamed 
And humbled down ; oh 1 then we feel, vr9 
feel 



534 



THE PRELUDE. 



We know wliere we liave friends. Ye dream- 
ers, then, 
Forgers of daring tales ! we bless you then, 
Impostors, drivellers, dotards, as the ape 
Philosophy will call you : ihen we feel 
With what and how great might ye are in 

league, 
Who make our wish, our power, our thought 

a deed, 
An empire, a possession, — ye whom time 
ylnvl -.easons serve ; all Faculties to whom 
Earth crouches, the elements are potter's 

clay. 
Space like a heaven filled up with northern 

lights. 
Here, nowhere, there, and everywhere at 
once. 

Relinquishing this lofty eminence 
For ground, though humbler, not the less a 

tract 
Of the same isthmus, which our spirits 

cross 
In progress from their native continent 
To earth and human life, the Song might 

dwell 
On that delightful time of growing youth, 
When craving for the marvellous gives wav 
To strengthening love for things that we 

have seen ; 
When sober truth and steady sympat'.iies, 
Offcied to notice by less daring pens. 
Take firmer hold of us, and words them- 
selves 
Move us with conscious pleasure. 

I am sad 
At thought of rapture now forever flown ; 
Almost to tears 1 sometimes could be sad 
To think of, to read over, many a page. 
Poems withal of name, which at that time 
Did never fail to entrance me, and arc n jw 
Dead in my eyes, dead as a theatre 
Fresh emptied of spectators. Twice five 

years 
Or less I might have seen, when first my 

mind 
With conscious pleasure opened to the 

charm 
Of words in tuneful order, found them sweet 
For their own sakes, a passion, and a power ; 
And phrases pleased me chosen for delight, 
For pomp, or love. Oft in the public roads 
Yet unfrequented, while tlie morning light 
Was yellowing the hill tops, 1 went abroad 



With a dear friend, and for the better part 
Of two delightful hours we strolled along 
By the still borders of the misty lake. 
Repeating favorite verses with one voice, 
Or conning more, as happy as the birds 
That round us chaunted. Well might we bt 

glad, 
Lifted above the ground by airy fancies, 
More bright than madness or the dreams oi 

wine ; 
And, though full oft the objects of our love 
Were false, and in their splendor over- 
wrought. 
Yet was there surely then no vulgar power 
Working within us, — nothing less, in truth, 
Than that most noble attribute of man, 
Though yet untutored and inordinate. 
That wish for something loftier, more 

adorned, 
Than is the common aspect, daily garb, 
« )f human life. What wonder, then, if sounds 
« 'f exultation echoed through t!-,e groves ! 
For images, and sentiments, and words, 
And everything encountered or pursued 
In that delicious world cf poesy. 
Kept holiday, a never-ending siiow. 
With music, incense, festival, and flowers ! 

Here must we pause : this only let mc adc', 
From heart experience, and in humble:.',- 

sense 
Cf modesty, that he, who in liis youth 
A .'.ally wanderer among woods and fields 
Wilh living Nature hatJi been intimate, 
Not only in that raw unpractised time 
Is stirred to ecstasv, as others are. 
By glittering verse ; but further, doth re- 
ceive. 
In measure only dealt out to himself. 
Knowledge and increase of enduring joy 
From the great Nature that exists in works 
Of mighty Poets. Visionary power 
Attends the motions of the viewless winds, 
Embodied in the mystery of words . 
There, darkness makes abode, and all th« 

host 
Of shadov/y things work endless changes,^ 

there. 
As in a mansion like their proper home. 
Even forms and substances are circumfused 
By that transparent veil with light divine. 
And, through the turnings intricate of verse. 
Present themselfes as objects recognized, 
In flashes, and vrith glory not their own. 



THE PRELUDE. 



535 



BOOK SIXTH. 



CAMBRIDGE AND THE ALPS. 

The leaves were fading when to Esthwaite's 

banks 
And the simplicities of cottage life 
I bade farewell ; and, one among the youth 
Who, summoned by that season, reunite 
As scattered birds troop to the fowler's lure, 
Went back to Granta's cloisters, not so 

prompt 
Or eager, though as c;ay and undepressed 
In mind, as when 1 thence had taken flight 
A few short months before. I turned my 

face 
Without repining from the coves and heights 
Clothed in the sunshine of the withering 

fern ; 
Quitted, not loth, the mild magnificence 
Of calmer lakes and louder streams ; and 

you, 
Frank-hearted maids of rocky Cumberland, 
Vou and your not unwelcome days of math, 
Relinquislied, and your nights of revelry, 
And in my own unlovely cell sate down 
In lightsome mood — such privilege has 

youth 
Tiiat cannot take long leave of pleasant 

t'loughts. 

The bonds of indolent society 
Relaxing m their hold, henceforth 1 lived 
More to myself. Two winters may be passed 
Without a separate notice: many books 
Were skimmed, devoured, or studiously pe- 
rused, 
But with no settled plan. I was detached 
Internally from academic cares; 
Yet independent study seemed a course 
Of hardy disobedience toward friends 
And kindred, proud rebellion and unkind. 
Tiiis spurious virtue, rather let it bear 
A name it now deservt s. this cowardice, 
Clave treacherous sanction to that over-love 
C)f freedom which encouraged me to turn 
From regulations even of my own 
As from restraints and bonds. Yet who can 

tell— 
Who knows what thus may have been 

gained, both then 
And at a later season, or preserved ; 
What love of nature, what ori'^inal strength 
Of comtemplation, wliat intuitive truths 
The dee]3est and the b.st, what keen re- 

spiiich, 
Usibiatsed, unbewildered, and unawcd ? 



Tiie Poet's soul was .#ith me at that 
time ; 
Sweet meditations, the still overflow 



j Of present happiness, while future years 
Lacked not anticipations, tender dreams, 

I No few of which have since been realized ; 

I And some remain, hopes for my future life. 

I Four years and thirty, told this very week, 
Have I been now a sojourner on earth. 
By sorrow not unsmitten ; yet for me 
Life's morning radiance hath not left the 

hills, 
Her dew is on the flowers. Those were the 

days 
Which also first emboldened me to trust 

I With firmness, hitherto but slightly touched 
By such a daring thought, tliat 1 migiit 
leave 

: Some monument behind me which pure 

! hearts 

Should reverence. The instinctive humble- 
ness, 
, Maintained even by the very name and 
thought 
Of printed books and authorship, began 
To melt away ; and further, the dread aw.-* 
Of mighty names was sottened down and 

seemed 
Approachable, admitting fellowship 
Of modest sympathy. Such aspect now, 
Though not familiarly, my mind put on, 
Content to observe, to achieve, and to en- 
joy. 

All winter long, whenever free to choo;-.e, 
Did I by night frequent the College grove 
And tributary walks ; the last, and oft 
The only one, who had been lingering there 
Through hours of silence, till the porter's 

bell, 
A punctual follower on the stroke of nine, 
Rang with its blunt unceremonious voice, 
Inexorable summons ! Lofty elms. 
Inviting shades of opportune recess. 
Bestowed composure on a neighborhood 
Ihipeaceful in itself. A single tree 
With sinuous trunk, boughs exquisitelj; 

wreathed. 
Grew there ; an ash which Winter for him- 
self 
Decked out with pride, and with outlandish 
grace : 
I Up from the ground, and almost to the top 
The trunk and every master branch were 
greeii 



536 



THE PRELUDE. 



With clustering ivy, and the lightsome 

twigs 
And outer spray profusely tipped with seeds 
That hung in yellow tassels, while the air 
Stirred them, not voiceless. Often have I 

stood 
Foot-bound uplooking at this lovely tree 
beneath a frosty moon. The hemisphere 
Of magic fiction, verse of mine perchance 
May never tread ; but scarcely Spenser's 

self 
Could have more tranquil visions in his 

youth, 
Or could more bright appearances create 
Of human forms with superhuman powers, 
Than I beheld loitering on calm clear nights 
Alone, beneath this fairy work of earth. 

On the vague readmg of a truant youth 
'Twere idle to descant. My inner judg- 
ment 
Not seldom differed from my taste in books, 
As if it appertained to another mmd, 
And yet the books which then I valued 

most 
Are dearest to me noiv ; for, having 

scanned, 
Not heedlessly, the laws, and watched the 

forms 
Of Nature, in that knowledge I possessed 
A standard, often usefully applied, 
Even when unconsciously, to thmgs re- 
moved 
From a familiar sympathy. — In fine, 
1 was a better judge of thoughts than words. 
Misled in estimaf ng words, not only 
By common inexperience of youth, 
But by the trade in classic niceties, 
The dangerous craft of culling term and 

phrase 
From languages that want the living voice 
To carry meaning to the natural heart ; 
To tell us what is passion, what is truth, 
What reason, with simplicity and sense. 

Yet may we not entirely overlook 
The pleasure gathered from the rudiments 
Of geometric science. Though advanced 
In these inquiries, with regret I speak, 
No farther than th.e threshold, there 1 found 
Both elevation and composed delight ; 
With Indian awe and wonder, ignorance 

pleased 
With its own struggles, did I meditate 
On the r»lation those abstractions bear 
To Nature's laws, and by what process lod. 
Those immaterial agents bowed their heads 



Duly to serve the mind of earth-born man ; 
From star to star, from kindred sphere U 

sphere. 
From system on to system without end. 

More frequently from the same source I 
drew ' 

A pleasure quiet and profound, a sense 
Of permanent and universal sway. 
And paramount belief ; there, recognized 
A type, for finite natures, of the one 
Supreme Existence, the surpassing life , 

Which — to the boundaries of space and | 

time, 
Of melancholy space and doleful tmie, 
Superior ana incapable of change. 
Nor touched by vvelterings of passion — is. 
And hath the name of, God. Transcendent 

peace 
And silence did await upon these thoughts 
That were a frequent comfort to my youth. 

'Tis told by one whom stormy waters 
threw, 
With fellow-sufferers by the shipwreck 

spared, 
Upon a desert coast, that having brought 
To land a single volume, saved Ijy chance, 
A treatise of Geometry, he wont, 
Although of food and clothing destitute, 
And beyond common wretchedness de- 
pressed. 
To part from company and take this book 
(Then first a self-taught pupil in its truths) 
To spots remote, and draw his diagrams 
With a long staff upon the sand, and thus 
Did oft beguile his sorrow, and almost 
Forget his feeling : so (if like effect 
From the same cause produced, 'mid out- 
ward things 
So different, may riglitly be compared), 
So was it then with me, and so will be 
With Poets ever. Mighty is the charm 
Of those abstractions to a mind beset 
With imagts and haunted by herself, 
And specially delightful unto me 
Was that clear synthesis built up aloft 
So gracefully ; even tiien when it appeared 
Not more than a mere plaything, or a toy 
To sense embodied : not the thing it is 
In verity, an independent world, 
Created out of pure intelligence. 

Such dispositions then were mine un- 
earned 
By aught, I fear, of genuine desert- 
Mine, through heaven's grace and inbom 
aptitudes. 



THE PRELUDE. 



S7.7 



And not to leave the story of that time 
Imperfect, with these habits must be joined 
Moods melancholy, fits of spleen, that loved 
A pensive sky, sad days, and piping winds, 
The twilight more than dawn, autumn than 

spring ; 
k treasured and luxurious gloom of choice 
And inclination mainly, and the mere 
Redundancy of youth's contentedness. 
—To time thus spent, add multitudes of 

hours 
Pilfered away, by what the Bard who sang 
Of the Enchanter Indolence hath called 
"Good-natured lounging,'' and behold a 

map 
Of my collegiate life — far less intense 
Than duty called for, or, without regard 
'i'o duty, viig/il have sprung up of itself 
r>y change of accidents, or even, to speak 
\Vithout unkindness, in another place. 
Vet why take refuge in that i^ea ? — the 

fault. 
This I repeat, was mine ; mine be the 

blame. 

In summer, making quest for works uf 

art. 
Or scenes renowned for beauty, I explored 
That streamlet whose blue current works its 

way 
TJetween romantic Dovedale's s])iry rocks ; 
Pried into Yorkshire dales, or hidden tracts 
Of my own native region, and was blest 
Between these sundry wanderings with a 

joy 
Above all joys, that seemed another morn 
Risen on mid noon ; blest with the presence, 

Friend I 
Of that sole Sister, her who hath been long 
Dear to thee also, thy true friend and mine, 
Now, after separation desolate. 
Restored to me — such absence that she 

seemed 
A gift then first bestowed The varied 

banks 
Of Emont, hitherto unnamed in song, 
And that monastic castle, 'mid tall trees. 
Low standmg by the margin of the stream, 
A mansion visited (as fame reports) 
By Sidney, where, in sight of our Helvellyn, 
Or stormy Cross-fell, snatches he might pen 
Of his Arcadia, by fraternal love 
Inspired ;— that river and those mouldering 

towers 
Have seen us side by side, when, having 

clomb 
The daiksome windings of a broken stair, 



And crept along a ridge of fractured wall, 
Not without trembling, we in safety looked 
Forth, through some Gothic window's open 

space. 
And gathered with ore mind a rich reward 
From the far-stretching landscape, by the 

light 
Of morning beautified, or purple eve ; 
Or, not less pleased, lay on some turret's 

head, 
Catching from tufts of grass and harc-bcll 

flowers 
Their faintest whisper to the passing breeze, 
Given out while mid-day heat oppressed the 

plains. 

Another maid there was, who also shed 
A gladness o'er that season, tiicn to me, 
By her exulting outside look of youth 
And placid undcr-countenance, first en- 

deared ; 
That other spirit, Coleridge ! who is now 
So near to us, that meek confiding heart, 
So reverenced by us both. O'er patlis and 

fields 
In all that neighborhood, through narrow 
• lanes 
Of eglantine, and through the shady woods, 
-And o'er the Border Beacon, and the waste 
Of naked pools, and common crags that lay 
Exposed on the bare fell, were scattered 

love, 
The spirit of pleasure, and youth's golden 

gleam. 
O Friend ! we had not seen thee at that 

time, 
And yet a power is on me, and a strong 
Confusion, and I seem to plant thee there 
Far art tliou wandered now in seaich of 
■ health 

And milder breezes, — melancholy lot ! 
Hut thou art with us, with us in the past, 
The present, with us in the times to come. 
There is no grief, no sorrow, no despair, 
No languor, no dejcctioii, no dismay. 
No absence scarcely can there be, for those 
Who love as we do. Speed thee well ! di 

vide 
With us thy pleasure; thy returning 

strength, 
Receive it daily as a joy of ours ; 
Share with us thy fresh spirits, whether 

gift 
Of gales Etesian or of lender thoughts. 

I, too, have been a wanderer ; but, alas 
How different the fate of different men. 



53^ 



THE FRELCDE. 



ThonoiVi mutually unknown, yea, nursed and 

reared 
As if in sevt-ral elements, we were framed 
To bend at la'^t tu tiie same discipline, 
Predestined, 11 two b?uv^s ever were. 
To seek the same delights^ and have one 

health, 
One happuiess. ThroMc;hout this narrative, 
Else sooner ended, 1 h,i\ c borne in mind 
For whom it registers the birth, and marks 

the growth, 
Of gentleness, simplicity, and truth. 
And joyous loves, that hallow innocent days 
Of peace and self-command. Of rivers, 

holds. 
And groves 1 speak to thee, my Friend ! to 

thee. 
Who, yet a liveried schoolboy, in the depths 
Of the huge city, on the leaded loof 
Of that wide edifice, thy school aiid home, 
Wert used to he and gaze upon the < loads 
Moving in heaven ; o», ».f that pleasure 

tired. 
To shut thine eyes, and by internal light 
See trees, and meadows, and thy native 

stream, ^ 

Far distant, thus beheld from year to year 
Of a long exile. Nor could 1 forget, 
In this late portion of my argument, 
That scarcely, as my term of pupilage 
Ceased, had I left those academic bowers 
When tliou wert thither guided. From the 

heart 
Oi London, and from cloisters there, thou 

earnest, 
And didst sit down in temperance and 

peace, 
A rigorous student What a stormy course 
Then followed O'l ! it is a pang that calls 
For utterance, to tiiink what easy change 
Of circumstances miglit to thee have spared 
A world of pain, ripened a thousand hopes, 
Forever withered. Through this retro- 
spect 
Of my collegiate life I still have had 
Thy after-sojourn in the self-same place 
Present before my eyes, have played with 

times 
And accidents as children do with cards 
Or as a man, wlio. when his house is built, 
A frame locked uj) in wood and stone, doth 

still, 
As impotent fancy prompts, by his fireside. 
Rebuild i*- to his liking. I have tiiought 
Ot thee, thy learning, gorgeous eloquence. 
And .'ill the strength und plumage of thy 

youtli, 



Thv subtle speculations, toils abstruse : 

.Among the schoolmen, and Platonic forms 
Of wild ideal pageantry, shaped out 
From things well-matched or ill, and wordi 

for things. 
The self-created sustenance of a mind 
Debarred from Nature's living images, 
Compelled to be a life unto herself, 
And unrelentingly possessed by thirst 
Of greatness, love, and beauty. Not alone, 
Ah ! surely not in singleness of heart 
Should I have seen the ligiitof evening fade^t 
Fiom smooth Cam's silent waters; had w'JH 

met, ^U. 

Even at that early time, needs must 1 trust 
In the belief that my maturer age. 
My calmer habits, and moe steady vo'ce. 
Would with an influence benign have 

soothed. 
Or chased away, the airy wretchedness 
That battened on thy youth. But tuou hast 

trod 
k march of glory, which doth put to shame 
These vain regrets ; health suffers in tnee, 

else 
Such grief for thee would be the weakest 

thought 
That ever harbored in the breast of man. 

.\ passing word erewhile did lightly touch 
On wanderings of my own, that now em- 
braced 
With livelier hope a vegion wider far. 

When the third summer freed us from re- 
straint, 
A youthful friend, he too a mountaineer. 
Not slow to share my wishes, took his staff. 
And sallying forth, we journeyed side by 

side. 
r?ound to the distant .Alps. A hardy slight 
Did this unprecedented course imply 
Of college studies and their set rewards; 
Nor had, in truth, tlic scheme been formed 

by me 
Without iinea.sy forethought of the pain, 
The ccn.:ures, and il!-omening of tiiose 
To whom my worldly interests were dear. 
But Nature then was sovereign in my mind, 
And niigiity forms, seizing a youthful fancy 
Had given a charter to irregular hopes. 
In any a:ie of uneventful calm 
Among tiie nations, surely would my heart 
Have been possessed by similar desire ; 
but Europe at that time was thrilled witt 

joy, 

Fr;^n(:e standing on the top of golden hours 
Ana human nature seeming born agiin. 



THE PRELUDE, 



539 



Lightly eqtiipped, and but a few brief 

looks 
C;ist on the white cliffs of our native shore 
Fiom the rccedin;; vessel's deck, we chanced 
To land at Calais on the very eve 
Ot that great federal day ; and there we 

saw, 
fn a mean city, and among a few, 
How bright a face is worn when joy of one 
[s joy for tens of millions. Soutliward 

thence 
We held our way, direct through hamlets, 

towns, 
Gaudy witli reliques of that festival, 
Flowers left to wither on triumphal arcs, 
And window-garlands. On the public 

roads, 
And, once, three days successively, through 

paths 
Bv which our toilsome journey was abridged, 
Among sequestered villages we walked 
And found benevo'ence and blessedness 
Spread like a fragrance everywhere, when 

spring 
Hath left no corner of the land untouched ; 
Where elms for many and many a league in 

files, 
With their thin umbrage, on the stately 

roads 
Of tiiat great kingdom, rustled o'er our 

lieads. 
Forever near us as we paced along : 
How sweet at such a time, with such delight 
On every side, in prime of youthful strength, 
To feed a Poet's tender melancholy 
And fond conceit of sadness, with the 

sound 
Of undulations varying as might please 
The wind that swayed them ; once, and more 

than once, 
Unhoused beneath the evening star we saw 
Dances of liberty, and in late hours 
Of darkness, dances in the open air 
Deftly prolonged, though gray-haired look- 
ers on 
Might waste their breath in chiding. 

Under hills — 
The vine-clad hills and slopes of Burgundy, 
Upon the bosom of the gentle Saone 
We glided forward with the flowing stream. 
Swift Rhone ! thou wert the wings on 

which we cut 
A winding passage with majestic ease 
Between thy lofty rocks. Enchanting show 
Those woods and farm:, and orcliards did 

present, 
And single cottagci i»nd lurking towns, 



Keach after reacn, succession without end 
Of deep and statelv vales ! A lonely pair 
Of strangers, till d.iy closed, we sailed along 
(. lustered to^'cther with a merry crowd 
O those emancipated, a bi.the host 
Of tr.ivellers. chiefly delegates, returning 
From the great spousals newly solemnized 
At their chief city, in the sight of Heaven. 
Like bees they swarmed, gaudy and gay as 

bees ; 
Some vapored in the unruliness of joy, 
And with their swords fiourished as if to 

fight 
The saucy air. In this proud company 
We landed — took with them our evening 

meal. 
Guests welcome almost as the angels were 
To .Abraham of old. Tiic supper done, 
With flowing cups elate and happy tlunights 
We rose at signal given, and formed a ring 
And, hand in hand, danced round and lound 

the board ; 
All hearts were open, every tongue was 

loud 
With amity and glee ; we bore a name 
Honored in France, the name of English- 
men, 
And hospitably did they give us hail, 
As their forerunners in a glorious coinrc ; 
And round and round the board we d«i.ced 

again. 
With these blithe friends our voyage we re- 
newed 
At early dawn. The monastery bells 
Made a sweet jingling in our youthful ears; 
The rapid river flowing without noise, 
And each uprising or receding spire 
Spake with a sense of peace, at intervals 
Touching the heart amid the boisterous 

crew 
By whom we were encompassed. Taking 

leave 
Of this glad throng, foot-travellers side by 

side. 
Measuring our steps in quiet, we pursued 
Our journey, and ere twice the sun h:.d set 
Beheld the Convent of Chartreuse, and 

there 
Rested within an awful solitude: 
^'es ; for even then no other than a place 
Of soul-affecting solitude appeared 
That far-famed region, though our eyes had 

seen, 
As toward the sacred mansion we advanced, 
Arms flashing, and a military glare 
Of riotous men commissioned to expel 
The blameless inmates, and belike subvert 



540 



TffE PRELUDE. 



That frame of social beinir, which so long 
Had bodied fortli the ghostliness of thiii;^s 
In silence visible and perpetual calm. 
— " Stay, stay your sacrilegious hands ! " — 

The voice 
Was Nature's, uttered from her Alpine 

throne; 
I heard it then and seem to hear it now — 
" Your impious work forbear : perish what 

may, 
I-ct this one temple last, be tiiis one spot 
Of earth devoted to eternity ! " 
Siie ceased to speak, but while St. Bruno's 

pines 
Waved their dark tops, not silent as they 

waved. 
And while below, alon:::; their several beds. 
Murmured the sister streams of Life and 

Death, 
Thus by conflicting passions pressed, my 

heart 
Responded ; " Honor to the patriot's zeal ! 
Glory and hope to new-born Liberty ! 
Mail to the mighty projects of the time! 
Discerning sword that Justice wields, do 

thou 
Cio forth and prosper ; and, ye purging 

tires, 
Up to the loftiest towers of Pride ascend. 
Fanned by the breath of angry Providence. 
liut oh ! if Past and Future be the wings 
On whose support harmoniou.sly conjoined 
Moves the great spirit of human knowledge, 

spare 
These courts of mystery, where a step ad- 
vanced 
Ik'twecn the portals of the shadowy rocks 
Leaves far behind Lite's treacherous vani- 
ties, 
For penitential tears and trembling hopes 
Exclianged — to equalize in God's pure sight 
Monarch and peasant . be the house re- 
deemed 
With its unworldly votaries, for the sake 
Of conquest over sense, iiourly achieved 
Through faith and meditative reason, rest- 
ing 
Upon tiie word of heaven-imparted truth, 
Calmly triumphant ; and for humbler claim 
Ot that imaginative impulse sent 
From these majestic floods, yon sliining 

cliffs. 
The untransmutcd shapes of many worlds, 
Cerulean ether's pure inhabitants. 
These forests unapproachable by death. 
That shall endure as long ss man endures, 
To think, to hope, to woisiiip, and to leel, 



To struggle, to be lost within himself 

In trepidation, from the blank abyss 

To look with bodily eyes, and be consoled." 

Not seldom since that moment have I 

wished 
That thou, O Friend ! the trouble or the 

calm 
Hadst shared, when, from profane regards 

apart, 
In sympathetic reverence we trod 
The floors of those dim cloisters, till that 

hour, 
From their foundation, strangers to ths 

presence 
Of unrestricted and unthinking man. 
.Abroad, how chccringly the sunshine lay 
Upon the open lawn.^ ! Vallombre's groves 
Entering, we fed the soul witli darkness ; 

thence 
Issued, and with uplifted eyes beheld, 
In different quarters of the bending sky, 
The cross of jesus stand erect, as if 
HaiKlsof angelic powers had fixed it there,, ^ 
Memorial reverenced by a thousand storms;' ' 
Vet then, from tlie undiscriminating sweep 
.And rage of one State-whirlwind, insecure. 

'Tis not my jiresent purpose to retra 
That variegated journey stc)) by step. 
.\ march it was of niilitaiy speed. 
And Earth did change her images and 

forms 
Before us, fast as clouds are changed in 

heaven 
Day after day, \\\\ early and down late, 
From hill to vale we dropped, from vale to 

hill 
Moimted — from province on to province 

swept, 
Keen hunters in a chase of fourteen weeks, 
Eager as birds of prey, or as a ship 
Upon the stretch, when winds are blowing 

fair : 
Sweet coverts did we cross of pastoral life, 
Enticing valleys, greeted them and h ft 
Too soon, while yet the very fiasli and 

gleam 
Of salutation were not jiassed away. 
Oh! sorrow for the )Outh who could have 

seen 
Unchastened, unsubdued, unaweJ, un- 

raised 
To patriarchal dignity of mind, 
.And pure simplicity of wish and will, 
Those sanctified abodes of peaceful man, 
Pleased (though to liardship born, and com- 
passed round 



THE PRELUDk. 



541 



With dariQter, varying as the seasons change) 
Pleased with his daily task, or. if not 

pleased, 
Contented, from the moment that the 

dawn 
(Ah ! surely not without attendant gleams 
Of soul-ilhiminntion) calls him forth 
To industiy, by glistenings flung on rocks. 
Whose evening shadows lead him to repose. 

Well might a stranger look with bounding 

heart 
Down on a green reces";, the first I saw 
Of those deep liaunts, an abori-^inal vale, 
Quiet and lorded over and possessed 
By naked huts, wood-built, and sown like 

tents 
Or Indian cabins over the fresh lawns 
And by the river side. 

That very day 
From a bare ridge we also first beheld 
Unveiled the summit of Munt Blanc, and 

grieved 
To have a soulless image on the eye 
Tliat had usurped upon a living thought 
Tiiat never more could be. The wondrous 

Vale 
Of Chamouny stretched far belov/, and 

soon 
With its dumb cataracts and streams of ice, 
A motionless ai ray of mighty waves, 
Five rivers broad and vast, made rich 

amends. 
And reconciled \is to realities ; 
Tiiere small buds warble from the leafy 

trees. 
The eagle soars high in the element, 
There doth the reaper bind the yellow sheaf, 
Tiie maiden spread the haycock in the sun, 
While Winter like a well-tamed lion walks, 
Descending from the mountain to make 

sport 
Among the cottages by beds of flowers. 

Whate'er in this wide circuit we beheld. 
Or heard, was fitted to our unnpe state 
Of intellect and heart. With such a book 
Before our eyes, we could not choose but 

read 
Lessons of genuine brotherhood, the plain 
And universal reason of mankind, 
The truths of young and old. Nor, side by 

side 
Pacing, two social pilgrims, or alone 
Each with his humor, could we fail to abound 
In dreams and fictions, pensively composed : 
Dejection taken up for pleasure's sake, 
And gilded sympathies, the willow wreath, 



And sober posies of funereal flowers, 
Gathered among those solitudes sublime 
From formal gardens of the lady Sorrow, 
Did sweeten many a meditative hour. 

Yet still in me with those soft luxuries 
Mixed something of stern mood, an under 

thirst 
Of vigor seldom utterly allayed : 
And from that source how different a sadness 
Would issue, let one incident make known. 
When from the Vallais we had turned, and 

clomb 
Along the Simplon's steep and rugged road, 
Following a band of muleteers, we reached 
A halting-place, where all together took 
Their noon-tide meal. Hastily rose our 

guide. 
Leaving us at the board ; awhile we lingered. 
Then paced the beaten downward way that 

led 
Right to a rough stream's edge, and there 

broke of! ; 
The only track now visible was one 
That from the torrent's further brink held 

forth 
Conspicuous invitation to ascend 
A lofty mountain. After brief delay 
Crossing the unbridged stream, that road we 

took. 
And clomb with eagerness, till anxious fears 
Intruded, for we failed to overtake 
Our comrades gone before. By tortunate 

chance, 
While every moment added doubt to doubt, 
A peasant met us, from whose mouth we 

learned 
That to the spot which had perplexed us 

first, 
We must descend, and there should find the 

load, 
Which in the stony channel of the stream 
Lay a few steps, and then along its banks ; 
And tliat our future course, all plain to sight. 
Was downwards, with the current of that 

stream. 
Loth to believe what we so grieved to hear, 
For still we had hopes that pointed to the 

clouds. 
We questioned him again, and yet again ; 
But every word that from the peasant's hps 
Came in reply, translated by our feelings. 
Ended in this, — that we had crossed the 

Alps. 

Imagination — here the Power so-called 
Through sad incompetence of human speech, 



542 



THE PRELUDE. 



That awful Power rose from the mind's 

abyss 
Like an unfathered vapor tliat enwraps, 
At once, some lonely traveller. I was lost ; 
Halted without an effort to break through ; 
Cut to my conscious soul I now can say — 
' 1 recognize thy glory ; " in such strength 
3f usurpation, when the light of sense 
3oes out, but with a flash that has revealed 
The invisible world, doth greatness make 

abode. 
There harbors ; whether wo be young or old, 
Our destiny, our being's heart and home. 
Is with infinitude, and only there ; 
Witli hop? it is, hope that can never die, 
Effort, and expectation, and desire, 
And something evermore about to be. 
Under such banners militant, the soul 
Seeks for no trophies, struggles for no spoils 
That may attest her prowess, blest in 

thouglits 
That are their own perfection and reward. 
Strong in herself and in beatitude 
That hides her, like the mighty flood of 

Nile 
Poured from his fount of Abyssinian clouds 
To fertilize the whole Egyptian plain. 

The melancholy slackening that ensued 
Upon those tidings by the peasant given 
Was soon dislodged. Downwards we 

hurried fast, 
And, with the half-shaped road which we 

had missed. 
Entered a narrow chasm. The brook and 

road 
Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy strait. 
And with them did we journey several hours 
At a slow pace. The immeasurable height 
Of woods decaying, never to be decayed. 
The stationary blasts of waterfalls. 
And in the narrow rent at every turn 
Winds thwarting winds, bewildered and for- 
lorn, 
riie torrents shooting from the clear blue 

sky, 
The rocks that muttered close upon our ears. 
Black drizzling crags that spake by the way- 
side 
As if a voice were in them, the sick sight 
And giddy prospect of the raving stream. 
The unfettered clouds and region of the 

Heavens, 
Tumult and peace, the darkness and tlie 

light- 
Were fll like workings of one mind, the 
ie.ai.ures 



Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree; 
Characters of the great Apocalypse, 
The types and symbols of Eternity, 
Of first, and last, and midst, and without 
end. 

That night our lodging was a house that 
stood 
Alone within the valley, at a point 
Where, tumbling from aloft, a torrent swelled 
The rapid stream whose margin we had trod ; 
A dreary mansion, large beyond all need. 
With high and spacious rooms, deafened and 

stunned 
By noise of waters, making innocent sleep 
Lie melancholy among weary bones. 

Uprisen betimes, our journey we renewed, 
Led by the stream, ere noon-day magnified 
Into a lordly river, broad and deep. 
Dimpling ah^ng in silent majesty. 
With mountains for its neighbors, and in 

view 
Of distant mountains and their snowy tops, 
And thus proceeding to Locarno's Lake, 
Fit resting-place for such a visitant. 
Locarno ! spreading out in width like Heaven', 
How dost thou cleave to the poetic heart. 
Bask in the sunshine of the memory ; 
And Como ! thou, a treasure whom the earth 
Keeps to herself, confined as in a depth 
Of Abyssinian privacy. I spake 
Of thee, thy chestnut woods, and garden 

plots 
Of Indian corn tended by dark-eyed maids ; 
Thy lofty steeps, and pathways roofed with 

vines, 
Winding from house to house, from town to 

town. 
Sole link that binds them to each other; 

walks. 
League after league, and cloistral avenues, 
Where silence dwells if music be not there : 
While yet a youth undisciplined in verse, 
Througli fond ambition of tliat hour I strove 
To chant your praise ; nor can approach you 

now 
Ungreeted by a more melodious Song, 
Where tones of Nature smoothed by learned 

Art 
May flow in lasting current. Like a breeze 
Or sunbeam over your domain I passed . 
In motifm without j)ause ; but ye have left 
Your beauty with me, a serene accord 
Of forms and colors, passive, yet endowed 
In their submissiveness with power as sweet 
And gracious, alnioi-t might I dare to say, 
As virtue is, or goodness ; sweet as love, 



THE PRELUDE. 



5^3- 



Or the remembrance of a generous deed, 
Or mildest vi^,ltations of pure thought, 
When God, the giver of all joy, is thanked 
Religiously, in silent blessedness ; 
Sweet as this last herself, for such it is. 

With those delightful pathways we ad- 
vanced, . 
.^or two days' space, in presence of the Lake, 
That, stretching far among the Alps, assumed 
A character more stern. The second night. 
From sleep awakened, and misled by sound 
Of the church clock tellmg the hours with 

strokes 
Whose import then we had not learned, we 

rose [n^gl>, 

By moonlight, doubting not that day was 
And that meanwhile by no uncertain path, 
Along the winding margin of the lake. 
Led, as before, we should behold the scene 
Hushed in profound repose. We left the 

town 
Of Gravedona with this hope ; but soon 
Were lost, bewildered among woods ;m 

mense, 
And on a rock sate down, to wait for day. 
An open place it was, and overlooked, 
Fiom high, the sullen water far beneath, 
On which a dull red image of the moon 
Lay bedded, changing oftentimes its form 
Like an uneasy snake. From hour to hour 
We sate and sate, wondering, as if the niglit 
Had been ensnared by witchcraft. On the 

rock 
At last we stretched our weary limbs or 

sleep, 
Rut cotdd not sleep, tormented by the stings 
Of insects, which, with noise like that of 

noon, 
Filled all the woods : the cry of unknown 

birds ; 
The mountains more by blackness visible 
And their own size, than any outward light; 
The breathless wilderness of clouds ; the 

clock 
That told with unintelligible voice, 
The widely parted hours ; the noise of 

streams. 
And sometimes rustling motions nigh at 

hand. 
That did not leave us free from personal 

fear ; 
And, lastly, the withdrawing mf)on, that set 
Before us, while she still was high m 

heaven ; — 
These were our food; and such a sumnu^r's 

night 



Followed that pair of golden days that shed 
On Como's Lake, and all that round it lay, 
Their fairest, softest, happiest influence. 

But here I must break off, and bid farewell 
To days, each offering some new sight, or 

fraught 
With some untried adventure, in a course 
Prolonged till sprinklings of autumnal sno>*' 
Checked our unwearied steps. Let tin" 

alone 
Be mentioned as a parting word, that not 
In hollow exultation, dealing out 
Hyperboles of praise comparative; 
Not rich one moment to be poor forever ; 
Not prostrate, overborne, as if the mind 
Herself were nothing, a mere pensioner 
On outward forms — did we in presence stand 
Of that magnificent region. On the front 
Of this whole Song is written that my heart 
Must, in such Temple, needs have offered up 
.\ different worship. Finally, whate'er 
I saw, or heard, or felt, was but a stream 
That flowed into a kindred strjain ; a gale. 
Confederate with the current of the soul. 
To speed my voyage ; every sound or sight, 
In its degree of power, administered 
To grandeur or to tenderness, — to the one 
Directly, but to tender thoughts by means 
Less often instantaneous in effect ; 
Led me to these by paths that, in the main, 
Were more circuitous, but not less sure 
Duly to reach the point marked out by 

Heaven. 

Oh, most beloved Friend ! a glorious time, 
A happy time that was ; triumphant looks 
Were then the common language of all eyes ; 
As if awaked from sleep, the Nations hailed 
Their great expectancy : the fife of war 
Was then a spirit-stirring sound indeed, 
A blackbird's whistle in a budding grove. 
We left the Swiss exulting in the fate 
Of their near neighbors ; and, when shorten 

ing fast 
Our pilgrimage, nor distant far from home, 
We crossed the Drabant armies on the fret 
For battle in the cause of Liberty, 
A stripling, scarcclv of the household then 
Of social life, I looked upon these things 
As from a distance ; heard, and saw, and 

felt. 
Was touched, but with no intimate co.icern : 
I seemed to move along them, as a bird 
Moves through the air. or as a fish pursues 
Its.sport, or feeds in its proper element; 



544 



THE PRELUDE. 



I wanted not that joy, I did not need 
Such help ; the ever-living; universe. 
Turn wliere 1 might, was opening out its 
glories, 



And tlie independent spirit of pure youth 
Called forth, at every season, new delights 
Spread round my steps like sunshine o'ol 
green fields. 



BOOK SEVENTH. 



I 



RESIDENCE IN LONDON. 

Six changeful years have vanished since I first 
I'oured out (saluted by that quickening 

breeze 
Which met me issuing from the City's * 

walls) 
A 3plad preamble to this Verse : I sang 
Aloud, with fervor irresistible 
Of short-lived transport, like a torrent burst- 

mg, 
From a black thunder-cloud, down Scafeli's 

side 
To rush and disappear. But soon broke 

forth 
(So willed the Muse) a less impetuous stream, 
That flowed awhile with unabating strength, 
Tlien stopped for years ; not audible again 
Before last prnnrose-time. Beloved Friend! 
The assurance which then cheered some 

heavy thoughts 
On thy departure to a foreign land 
Has failed , too slowly moves the promised 

work, 
Through the v/hole summer have 1 been at 

rest. 
Partly from voluntary holiday, 
And part through outward liindrance. But 

1 lieard. 
After the hour of sunset yester-even. 
Sitting within doors between light and dark, 
A choir of red-breasts gathered somewhere 

near 
My threshold,— minstrels from the distant 

woods 
Sent in on Winter's service, to announce. 
With preparation artful and benign. 
That the rough lord had left ' tlie surly 

North 
On his accustomed journey. Tiie delight, 
Due to this timely notice, unawares 
Smote me, and, listening, I in whispers 

said, 
" Ye hcartsome Choristers, ye and I will be 



unscared by blustering 
Thereafter, as the 



♦ The City of (ioslar, \\\ Lower Saxony. 



Associates, and 

winds. 
Will chant together.' 

shades 

Of twilight deepened, going forth, I spied 
A glow-worm underneath a dusky plume 
Or canopy of yet unwithered fern, /, 

Clear-shining, like a hermit's tai^r seen ' 
Through a thick forest. Silence touchtcj 

me here 
No less than sound had done before ; the 

child 
Of Summer, lingering, shining, by herself. 
The voiceless wurm on the unfrequented 

h;ils, 
Seemed sent on the same errand with the 

ch.oir 
Of Winter that had warbled at my cloor 
And tlie whole year breathed tenderness 

love. 

The last night's genial feeling overflowed' 
Upon this morning, and my favorite groxe, 
Tossing in sunshine its dark boughs aloft, 
As if to make the stronc; wind visible, 
Wakes in me agitations like its own, 
A spirit friendly to the Poet's task. 
Winch we will now resume witii lively hope, 
Nor checked by aught of tamer argument 
That lies before us, needful to be told. 

Returned from that excursion, soon I 

bade 
Farewell forever to the sheltered seats 
Of gowned students, quitted hall and 

bower, 
And every comfort of that privileged 

ground, 
Well pleased to pitch a vagrant tent among 
The unfenced regions of society. 

Yet, undetermined to what course of life 
I should adhere, and seeming to possess 
A little space of intermediate time 
At full command, to London first I turned 
In no disturbance of excessive hope, 
By personal ambition unenslaved, 



THE rR ELUDE. 



5^5 



Frugal as there was need, and, though self- 
willed. 
From dangerous passions free. Three 

years had flown 
Since I had felt in heart and soul the shock 
Of the huge town's first presence, and had 

paced 
Her endless streets, a transient visitant : 
Now, fixed amid that concourse of mankind 
Where Pleasure wiiirls about incessantly, 
And life and labor seem but one, I filled 
An idler's place ; an idler well content 
To have a house (what matter for a home ?) 
'J'hat owned hi'm ; living cheerfully abroad 
With unchecked fancy ever on the stir. 
And all my young affections out of doors. 

There was a time when whatsoe'er is 
feigned 
Of airy palaces, and gardens built 
By Genii of romance : or hath m grave 
Authentic history betn set forth of Kome, 
Alcairo, Babylon, or Persepolis ; 
Or given upon report by jiilgrim friars. 
Of go. den cities ten months' journey deep 
., Among Tartarian wilds— fell short, far 

\ short, 

"^ Of what my fond simplicity believed 

And thought of London — held me by a 

chain 
Less strong of wonder and obscure delight. 
Whether the bolt of childhood's Fancy shot 
For me beyond its ordinary mark, 
'Twere vain to ask ; but in our flock of 

boys 
Was One, a cripple from his birth, whom 
C chance 

Summoned from school to London ; for- 
tunate 
And envied traveller ! When the Boy re- 
turned, 
After short absence, curiously 1 scanned 
His mien and person, nor w.ns free, in 

sooth, 
From disappointment, not to find some 

change 
In look and air, from that new region 

brought. 
As if from Fairy-land. Much I questioned 

him ; 
And every word he uttered, on my ears 
Fell flatter than a caged parrot's note. 
That answers unexpectedly awry. 
And mocks the prompter's listening. Mar- 
vellous things 
Had vanity (quick Spirit that appears 
, Almost as deeply ssated and as stron^j 



In a Child's heart as fear itseV) conceived 
For my enjoyment. Would that 1 could 

now 
Recall what then I pictured t :- myself, 
Of mitred Prelates, Lords in ermine clad. 
The King, and the King's Palace, and, no*. 

last, 
Nor least. Heaven bless him ! the renowned 

Lord Mayor : 
Dreams not unlike to those which once be 

gat 
A change of purpc se in young Whittington^ 
When he, a friendless and a drooping boy, 
Sate on a stone, and heard the bells speak 

out 
Articulate music.-; Above all, one thought 
Pjaffled my understanding ; how men lived 
Even next-door neighbors, as we say, yet 

still 
Strangers, not knowing each the othe.'s 

name. 

O, wondrous power of words, by simple 

faith 
Licensed to take the meaning that we love ! 
Vauxhall and Ranelagh ! I then had heard 
Of your green groves, and wilderness of 

lamps 
Dimming the stars, and fireworks magical, 
And gorgeous ladies, under splendid domes, 
Floating in dance, or warbling high in air 
The songs of spirits ! Nor had Fancy fed 
With less delight upon that otlipr class 
Of marvels, broad-day wonders permanent : 
The River proudly bridged ; the dizzy top 
And Whispering Gallery of St. Paul's ; the 

tombs 
Of Westminster ; the Giants of Guildhall ; 
Bedlam, and those carved maniacs at the 

gates. 
Perpetually recumbent ; Statues — man. 
And the horse under him — in gilded pomp 
Adorning flowery gardens, 'mid vast 

squares ; 
The Monument, and that Chamber of the 

Tower 
Where England's sovereigns sit in long ar 

ray. 
Their steeds bestriding, — every mimic shap« 
Cased in the gleaming mail the monarch 

wore. 
Whether for gorgeous tournament ad 

dressed, 
Or life or death upon the battle-field 
Those bold imaginations in due time 
Had vanished, leaving others in their stead 
And now I looked upon the living scene » 



S46 



THE PRELl'DE. 



Familiarly perysed it ; oftentimes, 

In spite of strongest disappointment, 

pleased 
Through courteoiis self-submission, as a 

tax 
Paid to the object by prescriptive right. 

Rise up thou monstrous ant-hill on the 

plain 
Of a too busy world ! Before me flow, 
Thou endless stream of men and moving 

things I 
Thy every-day appearance, as it strikes — 
With wonder heightened, or sublimed by 

awe — 
On strangers, of all ages ; the quick dance 
Of colors, liglits, and forms ; the deafening 

din ; 
The comers and the goers face to face. 
Face after face ; the strmg of dazzling 

wares, 
Shop after shop, with symbols, blazoned 

names. 
And all the tradesman's honors overhead : 
Here, fronts of houses, like a title-page, 
Witli letters huge inscribed from top to toe. 
Stationed above the door, like guardian 

saints ; 
There, allegoric shapes, female or male, 
Or pliysiognomies of real men, 
Land-warriors, kings, or admirals of the sea, 
Boyle, Shakspeare, Newton, or the attrac- 
tive head 
Of some quack-doctor, famous in his day. 

Meanwhile the roar continues, till at 
length, 
Escaped as from an enemy, we turn 
Abruptly into some sequestered nook, 
Still as a sheltered place when winds blow 

loud ! 
At leisure, thence, through tracts of thin 

resort. 
And sights and sounds that come at inter- 
vals, 
We take our way. A raree-show is here. 
With children gathered round ; another 

street 
Presents a company of dancing dogs, 
Or dromedary, with an antic pair 
Of monkeys on his back ; a minstrel band 
Of Savoyards ; or, smgle and alone. 
An English ballad-singer. Private courts, 
Gloomy as coffins, and un:iightly lanes 
Thrilled by some female vendor's scream, 

belike 
The very shrillest of all London cries, 



May then entangle our impatient steps ; 
Conducted through those labyrinths, una 

wares, 
To privileged regions and inviolate, 
Where from their airy lodge studious law« 

yers 
Look out on waters, walks, and gardcn3 



Thence back into the throng, until wr 

reacli, 
Following the tide that slackens by degrees, 
Some half-frequented .scene, where wider 

streets 
Bring straggling breezes of suburban air. 
Here files of ballads d.mgle from dead 

walls ; 
Advertisements, of giant-size, from high 
Press forward, in all colors, on the sight ; 
Tliese bold in conscious merit, lower down J 
Tlu'.t^ fronted with a mo£t imposing word, 
Is, peradvcnture, one in masquerade. 
As on the broadening causeway we advance, 
Behold, turned upwards, a face hard and 

strong 
In lineaments, and red with over-toil. 
I 'Tis one encountered here and everywhere; 
A travelling cripple, by tiie trunk cut short, 
And stumping on his arms. In sailor's garb 
Another lies at length, beside a range 
Of well-formed characters, with chalk in- 
scribed 
Upon the smooth flat stones : the Nurse it 

here. 
The Bachelor, that loves to sun himself, 
The military Idler, and the Dam?, 
Thai field-ward takes her walk w.th decent 

steps. 

Now homeward through the thickening 

hubbub, where 
See, among less distinguishable shapes. 
The begging scavenger, with hat in hand; 
The Italian, as he thrids his way with care. 
Steadying, far-seen, a frame of images 
Upon his head ; with basket at Iiis breast 
The Jew ; the stately and slow-moving 

Turk, 
With freight of slippers piled beneath his 

arm! 

Enough ; — the mighty concourse I sur- 
veyed 
With no unthinking mind, well pleased to 

note 
Among the crowd all specimens of man, 
Through all the colors which the sun bo* 
stows. 



THE rR ELUDE. 



547 



And every character of form and face : 
The Swede, the Russian ; from the genial 

south, 
The Frenchman and the Spani?.rd ; from 

remote 
America, the Hunter-Indian : Moors, 
Malays, Lascars, the Tartar, the Chinese, 
And Ne^ro Ladies in white muslin gowns. 

At leisure, then, I viewed, from day to 

day, 
The spectacles within doors, — birds and 

beasts 
Of every nature, and strange plants con- 
vened 
From every climc ; and, next, those sights 

that ape 
The abjokitc presence of reality. 
Expressing; as in mirror, sea and land, 
And what earth is, and what she has to 

show. 
. do not here allude to subtlest craft. 
By means refined attaining purest ends, 
But imitations, fondly made in plain 
Confession of man's weakness and his 

loves. 
Whether the Painter, whose ambitious 

skill 
Submits to nothing less than taking in 
A whole horizon's circuit, do with power, 
Like that of angels cr commissioned spirits, 
Fix us upon some lofty pinnacle. 
Or in a ship on waters, with a world 
Of life, and Iife-like mockery beneath. 
Above, behind, far stretching and before ; 
Or more mechanic artist represent 
By scale exact, in model, wood or clay. 
From blended colors also borrowing help, 
Some miniature of famous spots or thmgs, — 
St. Peter's Church ; or, more aspiring aim. 
In microscopic vision, Rome herself ; 
Or, haply, some choice rural haunt, — the 

Falls 
Of Tivoli ; and, high upon that steep, 
The Sibyl's mouldering Temple ! every 

tree, 
Villa, or cottage, lurking among rocks 
Throughout the landscape ; tuft, stone, 

scratch minute — 
All that the traveller sees when he is there. 

Add to these exhibitions, mute and still, 
Others of wid^r scope, where living men, 
Music, and shifting pantomimic scenes, 
Diversified the allurement Need I fear 
To mention by its name, as in d'-gree. 
Lowest of these and humblest in attempt, 



Yet richly graced with honors of her own, 
Half-rural 'Sadler's Wells ? Though at 

that time 
Intolerant, as is the way of youth 
Unless itself be pleased, here more than 

once 
Taking my seat, I saw (nor blush to add, 
Witii ample recompense) giants and dwarfs 
Clowns, conjurers, posture-masters, harle- 
quins. 
Amid the uproar of the rabblement, 
Perform their feats. Nor was it mean de^ 

light 
To watch crude Nature work in untaught 

minds ; 
To note the laws and progress of belief ; 
Though obstinate on this way, yet on tliat 
How willingly we travel, and how far ! 
To have, for instance, brought upon the 

scene 
The champion, Jack the Giant-killer : Lo' 
He dons his coat of darkness ; on the stage 
Walks, and achieves his wonders, from the 

eye 
Of living Mortal covert, " as the moon 
Hid in her vacant interlunar cave." 
Delusion bold ! and how can it be wrou'?ht.'* 
The garb he wears is black as death, the 

word 
" Invisible " flames forth upon his chest. 

Here, too, were " forms and pressures of 

the time," 
Rough, bold, as Grecian comedy displayed 
When Art was young ; dramas of living 

men. 
And recent things yet warm with life; a sea- 
fight, ■ 
Shipwreck, or some domestic incident 
Divulged by Truth and magnified by Fame; 
Such as the daring brotherhood of late- 
Set forth, too serious theme for that ligh' 

place — 
I mean, O distant Friend ! a story drawn 
From our own ground, — The Maid of 

Buttermere,— 
And how, unfaithful to a virtuous wife 
Deserted and deceived, the Spoiler came 
And wooed the artless daughter of the hills 
And wedded her, in cruel mockery 
Of love and marriage bonds. These words 

to thee 
Must needs bring back the moment when 

we first, 
Ere the broad world rang with the maiden'a 

name, 
Beheld her serving at the cottage inn 



548 



THE PR ELUDE. 



Both stricken, as she entered or withdrew, 
With admiration of h-r modest mien 
And carria!:;e, marked by unexampled grace 
VVc since that time not unfamiliarly 
Have seen her, — her discretion have ob- 
served, 
Her just opinions, delicate reserve. 
Her patience, and iunnihty of mind 
Unspoiled by commendation and the excess 
Of public notice— an offensive light 
ro a meek spirit suffering inwardly. 

From this memorial tribute to my theme 
I was returning, wlien, with sundry forms 
Commingled — shapes which met me in the 

way 
That we must tread— thy image rose again, 
Maiden of Buttermere ! She lives in peace 
Upon the spot where she was born and 

reared 
Without contamination doth she live 
In quietness, without anxiety ; 
Beside the mountain chapel, sleeps in earth 
Her new-botn infant, fearless as a lamb 
Tliat, thither driven from some unsheltered 

place. 
Rests underneath the little rock-like pile 
When storms are raging. Happy are they 

both — 
Mother and child !— These feelings, in them- 
selves 
Trite, do yet scarcely seem so when I think 
On those ingenuous moments ot our youth 
Ere we have learnt by use to slight the 

cr:me3 
And sorrows of the world. Those simple 

days 
Are now my theme : and, foremost of the 

scenes 
Which yet survive in memory, appears 
One, at whose centre sate a lovely Boy, 
A sportive infant, who, for six months' 

space. 
Not more, had been of age to deal about 
Articulate prattle- — Child as beautiful 
/*s ever clung around a mother's neck, 
f)r father fondly gazed upon with pride, 
'i licre, too, conspicuous lor stature tall 
And large dark eyes, beside her infant stood 
Tho mother ; but, upon her cheeks diffused, 
False tints too well accorded with the glare 
?rom play-house lustres thrown without 

reserve 
On every object near. The Boy had been 
The pride and pleasure Qi all lookers on 
In \vhatsoever place, but seemed in this 
A. sort of alien scattered from the clouds. 



Of lusty vigor, more than infantine 

He was in limb, in cheek a summer roge 

Just three parts blown — a cottage-chiid — 

e'er. 
By cottage-door on breezy mountain side, 
Or in some sheltering vale, was seen a babe 
By Nature's gifts so favored. Upon a board 
Decked with refreshments had this child 

been placed. 
His little stage in the vast theatre, 
And there he sate surrounded with a throng 
Of cliance spectators, chiefly dissolute men 
And shameless women, treated and caressed ; 
Ate, drank, and with the fruit and glasses 

played, 
While oaths and laughter and indecent 

speech 
Were rife about him as the songs of birds 
Contending ftfter showers. The mother ' 

now 
Is fading out of memory, but I see 
The lovely Boy as I beheld him then 
Among the wretched and the falsely gay, 
Like one of those who walked with hair un- 

siugea 
Amid tiic tierv furnace. Charms and spells 
Muttered on black and spiteful instigation 
Have stopped, as some believe, the kindliest 

growths. 
.\h, with how different spirit misht a praver 
Have been preferred, that this tair creature, : 
checked ' 

By special privilege of Nature's love, ^ 

Should in his childhood be detained for-' 
ever ! ' 

But with its universal freight the tide 
Hatli rolled along, and this bright innocent, 
Mary ! may now have lived till he could 

look 
With envy on thy nameless babe that sleeps, 
Beside the mountain chapel, undisturbed. 

Four rapid years had scarcely then been 

told 
Since, travelling southward from our pastoral 

hills, 
I heard, and for the first time in my life, 
The voice of woman utter blasphemy- 
Saw woman as she is, to open shame 
Abandoned, and the pride of public vice; 
I shuddered, for a barrier seemed at once 
Thrown in that from humanity divorced 
Humanity, splitting the race of man 
In twain, yet leaving the same outward form 
Distress of mind ensued upon the sight, 
And ardent meditation. Later years 
Brought to such spectacle a milder sadness, 



THE PRELUDE. 



549 



Feelings of pure comm's?ratior!, grief 
For the individual and the overthrow 
0[" her soul's beauty; farther I vv.';^ then 
But seldom led, or wished to go ; in truth 
The sorrow of the passion stopped me there. 

But let me now, less moved, in order take 
Our argument. Enough is said to show 
How casual incidents of real life, 
Observed where pastime only had been 

sought, 
Outweighed, or put to flight, the set events 
And measured passions of the stage, albeit 
By Siddons trod in the fulness of her power. 
Yet was the theatre my dear delight ; 
The very gilding, lamps and pamted scrolls, 
And all themean uph(;]stery of the place, 
Wanted not animation, when the tide 
Of pleasure ebbed but to return as fast 
With the ever-sliifting figures of the scene, 
Solemn or gay : whether some beauteous 

dame 
Advanced in radiance through a deep recess 
Of thick entangled forest, like the moon 
Opening the clouds ; or sovereign king, 

announced [state 

With flourishing trumpet, came in full-blown 
Of tlie world's greatness, winding round 

with train 
Of courtiers, banners, ; n 1 a length of gunr is ; 
Or captive led in abjviCt weeds, and jinghng 
His slender manacleF ; or romping girl 
Bounced, leapt, anJ pawed the air ; or 

mumbling sire, 
A scare-crow pattern of old age dressed up 
In all the tatters of infirmitv 
AH loosely put together, hobbled in, 
Stumping upon a cane with which he smites, 
From time to time, the solid boards, and 

makes tliem 
Prate somewliat loudly of the whereabout 
Of one so overloaded with his years. 
Cut what of this! the laugh, the grin, gri- 
mace. 
The antics striving to outstrip each other. 
Were all received, the least of them not lost, 
With an unmeasured welcome. Through 

the night, 
Between the show, and many-headed mass 
Of the spectators, and each several nook 
Filled with its fray or brawl, liow eagerly 
And with what flashes, as it were, the mind 
Turned this way — that wav I sportive and 

alert ' I 

k nd watchful, as a kitten when at play, 
While winds are eddying round her, among | 

strav/s I 



And rustling leaves. Enchanting age and 

sweet ! 
Romantic almost, looked at through M space. 
How small, of intervening years ! For then, 
Though surely no mean progress had been 

made 
In meditations holynnd sublime, 
Yet something of a girlish child-like gloss 
Of novelty survived for scenes like these: 
Enjoyment haply handed down from times 
When at a country-playhouse, some rude 

barn 
Tricked out for that proud use, if I per- 
chance 
Caught, on a summer evening through a 

chink 
In the okl wall, an unexpected glimpse 
Of daylight, the bare thought of where I 

was 
Gladdened me more than if 1 had been led 
Into a dazzling cavern of romance, 
Crowded witii Genii busy among works 
Not to be looked at by the common sun. 

The matter that detains us now may 

seem, 
To many, neither dignified enough 
Nor arduous, yet will not be scorned by 

them 
Who, looking inward, have observed the ties 
That bind the perishable hours of life 
Each to the other, and the curious props 
By which the world of memory and thought 
Exists and is sustained. More lofty tliemes, 
Such as at least do wear a prouder face, 
Solicit our regard ; but when I think 
Of these, I feel the imaginative power 
Languish within me; even then it slept, 
When, pressed by tragic sufferings, the 

heart [tears 

Was more than full ; amid my sobs and 
It slept, even in the pregnant season ot 

; youth. 7 

For though I was most passionately moved 
And yielded to all changes of the scene 
With an obsequious promptness, yet the 

storm 
Passed not beyond the suburbs of the mindj 
Save when realities (.f act and mien, 
The incarnation of the spirits that move 
In harmony amid the Poet's world, 
Hose to ideal grandeur, or called forth 
P>y power of contrast, made me recognize, 
As at a glance, the things which I had 

shaped, 
.And yet not shaped, iiad seea and scarcely 

seen, 



550 



THE PRELUDE. 



When, havin<i closed the mighty Shak- 

speare's pa2;e, 
I mused, and thought, and felt, in solitude. 

Pass we from entertainments, that are 

such 
P'ofessedly, to others titled higher, 
V ^ in the estimate of youth at least, 
M re near akin to those than names imply, — 
I lean the brawls of lawyers in their courts 
iicfore the ermined judge, or thai great stage 
Where senators, tongue-favored men, per- 
form. 
Admired and envied. Oh ! the beating 

heart, 
When one among the prime of these lo.e 

up- 
One, of whose name from childiiood we had 

heard 
Familiarly, a household term, like those. 
The Bedfords, Cilosters, Salsburvs, of old 
Whom the fiftli Harry talks of. Silence! 

hush ! 
This is no trifler, no short-flighted wit, 
No stammerer of a mmute, painfully 
Delivered. No' the Orator hath yoked 
The Hours, like young Aurora, to his car : 
Thrice welcome Presence ! how can patience 

e'er 
Grow weary of attending on a track 
That kmdles with such glory ! All are 

charmed. 
Astonished \ like a hero in romance, 
He wmds away his never-ending horn ; 
Words follow words, sense seems to follow 

sense ; 
What memory and what logic ! till the strain 
Transcendent, superhuman as it seemed. 
Grows tedious even in a young man's car. 

Genius of Burke ! forgive the pen se- 
duced 
By specious wondors, and too slow to tell 
Of what the ingenuous, what bewildered 

men, 
Bcginnmg to mistrust their boastful guides, 
And wise men, willing to grow wiser, 

caught, 
Rapt auditors ! from thy most eloquent 

tongue — 
Now mute, forever mute in the cold grave. 
I see him, — old, but vigorous in age,— 
Stand like an oak whose stag-Iiorn branches 

start 
Out of its leafy l.^row, the more to awe 
The younger brethicn of the grove. But 
some- 



While he forewarns, denounces, launchel 

forth, 
Against all systems built on abstract rights. 
Keen ridicule; the majesty proclaims 
Of Institutes and Laws, ha'lowed by time ; 
Declares the vita! power of social ties 
Endeared by Custom ; and with high dis 

dain, 
Exploding upstart Theory, msists 
Upon the allegiance to which men are born^ 
Some — say at once a froward multitude — 
Murmur (for truth is hated, where not 

loved) 
As the winds fret within the i^olian c .vc, 
Galled by their monarch's chain 'J lie 

times were big 
With ominous change, which, night by night, 

provoked 
Keen struggles, and black clouds of pass.on 

raised ; 
But memorable moments intervened, 
j When Wisdom, like the Goddess from 
} Jove's brain, 

Broke forth in armor of resplendent words. 
Startling the Synod Could a youth, and 

one 
In ancient story versed, whose breast had 

heaved 
Under the weight of classic eloquence, 
I Sit, see, and hear, unthankful, uninspired? 

Nor did the Pulpit's oratory fail 
To achieve its higher triumph. Not nnfex 
Were its admonishments, nor liglitly heard 
The awful truths delivered tlience by 

tongues [soul \ 

Endowed with various power to searcii the 
Vet ostentation, domineering, oft 
Poured forth harangues, how sadly out o* 

place ! — 
There have I seen a comely bachelor, 
PVesh from a toilette of two hours, ascend 
His rostrum, with ; eraphic glance look up, 
And, in a tone elaborately ir)W 
Beginning, lead his voice Ihrough many ;i 

maze 
A minuet course; and, winding up his 

mouth, 
From time to time, into an orifice 
Most delicate, a lurking eyelet, small, 
And only not invisible, again 
Open it out, diffusing thence a smile 
Of rapt irradiation, exquisite 
Meanwhile the Evangelists, Isaiah, Job, 
Moses, and he who penned, the other day, 
The death of Abel, Shakspeare, and thf 

Bard 



THE PRELUDE. 



55^ 



Whose genius spangled o'er a gloomy 
» theme • 

With fancies thick as his inspiring stars, 
And Ossian (doubt not — 'tis the naked 

truth) 
Summoned from streamy Morven — each and 

all 
Would, in their turns, lend ornaments and 

flowers 
To entwine the crook of eloquence that 

helped 
This pretty Shepherd, pride of all the plains, 
To rule and guide his captivated flock. 

■I glance but at a few conspicuous marks, 
leaving a thousand others, that, in hall, 
CoLirt, theatre, conventicle, or shop, 
Jn [Hiblic room or private, park or street. 
Each fondly reared on his own pedestal, 
Ltoked out for admiration. Folly, vice, 
Extravagance in gesture, mien, and dress, 
And all the strife of singularity, 
Eics to the ear, and lies to every sense — 
Of these, and of the living shapes they 

wear. 
There is no end. Such candidates for re- 
gard, 
Although well pleased to be where they 

were found, 
I did not hunt after, nor greatly prize, 
Nor made unto myself a secret boast 
Of reading them with quick and curious 

eye; 
But, as a common produce, things that are 
To-day, to-morrow will be, took of them 
Such willing note as, on some errand bound 
That asks not speed, a traveller might be- 
stow 
On sea-shells that bestrew the sandy beach. 
Ol daisies swarming through the fields of 
June 

But foolishness and madness in parade, 
Though most at home in this their dear do- 
main, 
Are scattered everywhere, no rarities. 
Even to the rudest novice of the Schools. 
Me, rather, it employed, to note, and keep 
In memory, those individual sights 
Of courage, or integrity, or truth. 
Or tenderness, which there, set off by foil. 
Appeared more touching. One will I select ; 
A Father— for he bore that sacred name — 
Him saw I, sitting in an open square. 
Upon a corner-stone of that low wall, 
Wherein were fi.xed the iron pales that 
fenced 



A spacious grass-plot ; there, in silence, 

sate 
Tills One Man, with \ sickly babe oufc 

stretched 
Upon his knee, whom he had thithei 

brought 
For sunshine, and to breathe the fresher 

air. 
Of those who passed, and me who looked at 

him. 
He took no heed ; but in his brawny arms 
(The Artificer was to the elbow bare. 
And from his work this moment had been 

stolen) 
He held the child, and, bending over it, 
As if he were afraid both of tlie sun 
.-\ndof the air, which he had come to seek, 
Eyed tlie jxior babe with love unutterable. 

As the black storm upon the mountain 

ton 
Sets off the sunbeam in the vnlley, so 
That huge fermenting mass of human-kind 
Serves as a solemn back-G;round, or relief. 
To single forms and objects,-: whence they 

draw, 
For feeling and contemplative regard, 
More than inherent liveliness and power. 
How oft, amid those overflowing streets. 
Have I gone forward with tiie crowd, and 

said 
Unto myself, " The face of every one 
That passes by me is a my>tcry ! " 
Thus have I looked, nor ceased to look, op- 

pressed 
By thoughts of what and whither, when and 

how. 
Until the shapes before my eyes became 
A second-sight procession, such as glides 
Over still mountains, or appears in dreams ; 
And once, far- travelled in such mood, be- 
yond 
The reach of common indication, lost 
.Amid the moving pageant, I was smitten 
.\bruptly, with the view (a sight not rare) 
Of a blind Beggar, who, with upright face, 
.Stood, propped against a wall, upon his 

chest 
Wearing ?. v/ritten paper, to explain 
His story, whence he came, and who he 

was. 
Caught by the spectacle my mind turned 

round 
.\s with the might of waters ; and apt type 
Jhis label seemed of the utmost we can 

know. 
Both of ourselves and of the uni\'"erse; 



552 



THE PRELUDE. 



And, on the shape of that unmoving man 
His steadtabt lace and sightless eyes, I 

gazed, 
As if admonished from another world. 

Though reared upon the base of outward 

things, 
Structures like these the excited spirit 

mainly 
Builds for herself ; scenes different there 

are, 
Full-formed, that take, with small internal 

help, 
Possession of the faculties,— the peace 
'J'hat comes witti night ; the deep solemnity 
Of nature's intermediate hours of rest, 
Wiicn the great tide of human life stands 

still: 
Th,- business of the day to come, unborn, 
C)t that gone bv, locked up, as in the grave ; 
The blended calmness of the heavens and 

earth, 
Moonliglit and stars, and empty streets, and 

sounds 
Unfrequent as in deserts ; at late hours 
Of winter evenings, when unv/holesome 

rains 
Are ialling hard, with people yet astir, 
The feeble salutation from the voice 
Of some unhappy woman, now and then 
Heard as we pass, when no one looks about. 
Nothing is listened to. But these, I fear, 
Arc falsely catalogued ; things that are, are 

not, 
As the mind answers to them, or the heart 
Is prompt, or slow, to teel. What say you, 

then, 
To times, when half the city shall break 

out 
Full of one passion, vengeance, rage, or 

fear ? 
To executions, to a street on fire. 
Mobs, riots, or rejoicings ? From these 

sights 
Take one, — that ancient festival, the Fair, 
H olden where martyrs suffered in past 

time, [see 

And named of St. Bartholomew; there, 
A work completed to our hands, that lays, 
If any spectacle on earth can do. 
The whole creative powers of man asleep ! — 
For once, the Muse's help will we implore, 
And she shal! lodge us, wafted on her 

wings, 
Above the press and danger of the crowd. 
Upon some showman's platform. What a 

shock 



For eyes and ears ! what anarchy and din, 
Barbarian ami infernal, — a jiliaiUasma, 
Monstrous in color, motion, shape, sight, 

sound ! 
Below, the open space, through every nook 
Of the wide area, twinkles, is alive 
With heads ; the midway region, and above, 
Is thronged with staring pictures and luige 

scrolls, 
Dumb proclamations of the Prodigies ; 
With chattering monkeys dangling from 

their poles. 
And children whirling in their roundabouts ; 
With those that stretch the neck and strain 

the eyes, 
And crack the voice in rivalship, the crowd 
Inviting ; with buffoons against buffoons 
Grimacing, writhing, screaming, — him vvhq 

grinds 
The hurdy-gurdy, at the fiddle weaves. 
Rattles the salt-box, thumps the kettle- 
drum. 
And him who at the trumpet puffs his 

cheoks. 
The silver-collared Negro with his timbrel, 
Equestrians, tumblers, women, girls, and 

boys. 
Blue-breeched, pink-vested, with high tow- 
ering plumes. — 

All movables of wonder, from all parts. 
Arc here — Albinos, painted Indians, Dwarfs, 
The Horse of knowledge, and the learned 

Pig, 
The Stone-eater, the man that swallows 

fire. 
Giants, Ventriloquists, the Invisible Girl, 
The Bust that speaks and moves its gog- 
gling eyes, 
The Wax-work, clock-work, all the marvel 

lous craft 
Of modern Merlins, Wild Beasts, Puppet 

shows 
All out-o'-the way, far-fetched, perverted 

things, 
All freaks of nature, all Promethean thoughts 
Of man, his dulness, madness, and their 

feats 
All jumbled up together, to compose 
A parliament of Monsters. Tents and 

Booths 
Meanwhile, as if the whole were one vast 

mill, 
Are vomiting, receiving on all sides, 
Men, Women, three-years' children, Babes 

in arms. 
Oh, blank confusion ! true epitome 



THE Ik ELUDE. 



553 



Of what the mighty City is herself, 

To thousands upon thousands of her sons, 

L:ving amid tlie same perpetual whirl 

Ot trivial objects, melted and reduced 

To one identity, by differences 

Tliat have no law, no meaning, and no 

end — 
Oppression, under which even highest 

minds [free. 

Must labor, whence the strongest are not 
But tliough the picture weary out the eye, 
By nature an unmanageable sight. 
It is not wholly so to him who looks 
In steadiness, wlio hath among least things 
An under-sense of greatest . sees the parts 
As parts, but with a feeling of the whole. 
This, of all acquisitions, first awaits 
On sundry and most widely different modes 
Of education, nor w th least del.ght 
On that through which 1 passed. Attention 

springs, 
And comprehensiveness and memory flow, 
From early converse with the works of Cod 
Among all rcgio.is ; chiefly wlicre appear 
Most obviously simplicity and power. 
Think, how the everlasting streams and 

woods. 
Stretched and still stretching far and wide, 

exalt 
The roving Indian, on his desert sands : 



What grandeur not unfelt, what pregnant 

show 
Of beauty, meets the sun-bi;rnt Arab's eye : 
And, as the sea propels, from zone to zone, 
Its currents ; magnifies its shoals of life 
Beyond all compass ; spreads, and sends 

aloft 
Armies of clouds, — even so, its powers and 

aspects 
Shape for mankind, by principles as fixed, 
The views and aspirations of the soul 
To majesty. Like virtue have the forms 
Perennial of the ancient hills ; nor less 
The changeful language of tlieir counte- 
nances 
Quickens the slumbering mind, and aids the 

thoughts. 
However multitudinous, to move 
With order and relation. Tliis, if still, 
,\s hitherto, in freedom I may speak, 
Not violating any just restraint. 
As may be hoped, of real modestv, — 
Tills did I feel, in London's vast domain. 
The Spirit of Nature was upon me there; 
The soul of Beauty and enduring Life 
Vouchsafed her inspirat-on, and diffused, 

I Through meagre lines and colors, and the 

; press 

j Of self-destroying, transitory things, 

' Composure, and ennobling Harmony. 



BOOK EIGHTH. 



RETROSPECT — T.OVE OF NATURE 
LEADING TO LOVE OF M.\N. 

Wh.\t sounds are those, Helvellyn, that 

are heard 
Up to thy summit, through the dejUli of 

air 
Ascending, as if distance had the power 
To make the sounds more audible .'' What 

crowd 
Covers, or sprinkles o'er, yon village green "> 
Crowd seems it. sol-tary hil! ! to thee 
Though but a little family of men. 
Shepherds and tillers of the ground — be- j 

times I 

Assembled with their children and their I 

wives, ■' 

And here and there a stranger interspersed. | 
Tliey hold a rustic fair — a festival, 
Such as, on this side now. and now on that, ; 
Repeated through his tributary vales, • 

HelveUyn, in the silence of his rest, ' 



Sees annually, if cViuds towards eitlier 

ocean 
Blown from their favorite resting-place, or 

mists 
Dissolved, have left him an unshroudcd 

head. 
Delightful day it is for all who dwell 
In this secluded glen, and eagerly 
They give it welcome. Long ere heat of 

noon, 
From byre or field the kine were brought; 

the sheep [g""- 

.Are penned in cotes; the chaffering is be* 
I'he heifer lows, uneasy at the voice 
Of a new mast(,'r ; bleat tlie flocks aloud. 
Booths are there none ; a stall or two is 

here ; 
.\ lame man or a blind, the one to beg, 
riie other to make music ; liitlier, too, 
From far, with basket, slung upon her arm. 
Of hawker's wares — books, pictures, comia*, 

and pins— 



=554 



THE PREIXTDE. 



Some aged woman finds her way again, 
Year after year, a punctual visitant ! 
There also stands a speech-nuiker by rote, 
Pulimg the string'- of his boxed raree-siujvv ; 
And in the lapse of many years may come 
Piouder Itinerant, mountebank, or he 
Who.e wonders m a covered wain he hid. 
But one there is, the loveliest of them all, 
^ ome swtiet lass of the valley, lookmg out 
For ga:ns, and who that sees her would not 

buy ? 
Fruits of her father's orchard are her wares, 
And with the ruddy produce, she walks 

round 
Among the crowd, half pleased with, half 

ai-hamed 
Of her new office, blusliing restlessly. 
The children i.ow are riCh, for the old to- 
day 
Are generous as the young , and, if content 
With looking on, some ancient wedded pair 
S!t in the shade together, vvii.le they gaze, 
" A cheerful sm.lc unbends the wrinkled 

b ovv. 
The davs departed start again to life, 
And al; the scenes of childhood reaj^pear, 
Famt, but more tranquil, like the changing 

sun 
To h.m who slept at noon and wakes at 

eve.-' * 
Thus gayety and cheerfulness prevail, 
Spreading from young to o'.d, from old to 

young, 
And no one seems to want Ills share. — Im- 
mense 
Is the recess, the cy-cumambient world 
Magnificent, by vvh'cli they are embraced. 
They move aboit upon the solt green turf: 
How little tliey, tli^y and their doings, 

seem, 
And all that they can further or obstruct ! 
Tlvough utter weakness pitiably dear, 
As tender infants are ; and yet how great ! 
For all things serve them ; them the morn- 
ing light 
Loves, as it glistens on the silent rocks ; 
And them the silent rocks, which now from 

high 
Look down upon them , the reposing 

clouds ; 
The wild brooks prattling from invisible 
haunts ; 



And old Helvellyn, conscious of the stir 
Which animates this day their caim abode. 

\\'ith deep devotion. Nature, did I feel. 
In that enormous City's turbulent woild 
Of men and things, what benefit I owed 
'Jo thee, and those domains of rural peace, 
Where to the sense of beauty first my heart 
Was opened ; tract more exquisitely fair 
Than that famed paradise of ten thousand 

trees, 
Or Gehols matchless gardens, for delight 
O the Tartarian dynasty composed 
(LJeyond that mighty wall, not fabulous, 
China's stupendous mound) by patient toil 
Of myriads and boon nature's lavish helji ; 
There, in a clime from widest emj)ire 

chosen, 
Fulfilling (could enchantment have dene 

more '") 
A sumptuous dream of tlowery lawns, with 

domes 
Of pleasure sprinkled over, shady dells 
Vox eastern monasteries, sunny mounts 
W'.th temples crested, bridges, gondolas, 
Rocks, dens, and groves of foliage taught to 

melt 
Into eacii other their obsequious hues, 
V'an^shed and vanishing in subtle chase. 
Too fine to be pursued ; or standing forth 
in no discoidant opjiosition, strong 
And gorgeovis as the colors side by side 
Bedded among rich plumes of tropic birds 
And mountains over all, embracing all ; 
And all the landscape, endlessly enriched 
With waters running, falling, ur asleep. 

But lovelier far than this, the paradise 
Where I was reared; in Nature's prlnnlive 

gifts 
Favored no less, and more to every sense 
Delicious, seeing that the sun and sky. 
The elements, and seasons as they chan^^e. 
Do find a worthy fel'ow-laborer there — 
Man free, man working for himself, w.lh 

choice 
Of time, and place and object ; by !;;£ 

wants, 
His comforts, native occupations, care^ 
Cheerfully led to individual ends 
Or social, and still followed by a train 
Unwooed, unthought-of even — simplicity, 
. I And beauty, and mevitable grace. 

• These lines are from a descriptive Poem- ! ^ea. when a glimpse of those imperia» 
••Mnlvern Hills"— by one of Mr. Word'i- | Iwwcrs 

worth's oldest friends, Mr. Joseph Cottle. Would to a child be transport over-great, 



THE PRELUDE. 



555 



When but a half-hour's roam through such 

a place 
Would leave behind a danoe of images, 
riuit shall break in upon his sleep for 

weeks ; 
Ev-jn tlien the common haunts of tlie green 

earth, 
And ordinary interests of man, 
Which they embosom, all witliout regard 
As both may seem, are fastening on the 

heart 
Insensibly, each with the other's help. 
For me, when my affections first were led 
From kindred, friends, and playmates, to 

partake 
Love for the human creature's absolute self, 
That noticeable kindliness of heart 
Sprang out of fountains, there abounding 

most, 
Where sovereign Nature dictated the tasks 
And occupations which her beauty adorned, 
And Shepherds were the men tliat pleased 

me first ; 
Not such as Saturn ruled 'mid Latian 

wilds, 
\yith arts and laws so tempered that their 

lives • 

Left, even to us toiling in this late day, 
A brigiit tradition of the golden age ; 
Not such as, 'mid Arcadian fastnesses 
Sequestered, handed down among them- 
selves 
Felicity, in Grecian song renowned ; 
Nor such as — when an adverse fate had 

driven, 
From house and home, the courtly band 

whose fortunes 
Entered, with Shakspeare's genius, the wild 

woods 
Of Arden — amid sunshine or in shade 
Culled the best fruits of Time's uncounted 

hours. 
Ere Phoebe sighed for the false Ganymede ; 
Or there where Ferdita and Florizel 
1'ogether danced, Queen of the feast, and 

King ; 
Nci such as Spenser fabled. True it is, 
That I had heard (what lie perhaps iiad 

seen) 
Of maids at sunrise bringing in from far 
Their May-bush, and along the streets in 

Hocks 
Paradmg with a song of taunting rhymes. 
Aimed at the laggards slumbering withm 

doors ; 
Had also heard, from those who yet re- 
membered, 



Tales of the May-pole dance, and wreaths 

that decked 
Porch, door-way, or kirk-pillar ; and of 

youths, 
Each with his maid, before the sun was up, 
By annual custom, issuing forth in troops. 
To drink the waters of some sainted well 
And hang it round with garlands. Love 

survives ; 
But, for such purpose, flowers no longer 

grow : 
The times, too sage, perhaps too proud, have 

dropped 
These lighter graces ; and the rural ways 
And manners which my childhood looked 

upon 
Were the uriluxuriant produce of a life 
Intent on little but substantial needs. 
Yet rich in beauty, beauty that was felt. 
But images of danger and distress, 
Man suffering among awful Powers and 

Forms ; 
Of this I heard, and saw enough to make 
Imagination restless ; nor was free 
Myself from frequent perils ; nor were tales 
Wanting, — the tragedies of,iormer times. 
Hazards and strange escapes, of which the 

rocks 
Immutable and overflowing streams, 
Wiiere'er I roamed, were speaking monu- 
ments. 

Smooth life had flock and shepherd in 

old time, 
Long springs and tepid winters, on the 

banks 
Of delicate Galesus ; and no less 
Those scattered along Adria's myrtle shores : 
Smooth life had herdsman, and his snow- 
white herd 
To triumphs and to sacrificial rites 
Devoted, on the inviolable stream 
Of rich Clitumnus ; and the goat-herd lived 
As calmly, underneath the pleasant brows 
Of cool Lucretilis, where the pipe was 

heard 
Of Pan, Invisible God, thrilling the rocks 
With tutelary music, from all harm 
Tlie fold jnotccting. I myself, mature 
In manhood then, have seen a pastoral 

track 
Like some of these, where Fancy might run 

wild. 
Though under skies less generous, less 

serene ; 
There, for her own delight had Naturt 

framed 



S5C 



THE PRELUDE. 



A pleasure-ground, diffused a fair expanse 

Of level pasture, islanded with groves 

And banked with woody risings ; but the 

Plain 
Endless, here opening widely out, and there 
Shut up in lesser lakes or beds of lawn 
And intricate recesses, creek or bay 
Sheltered within a shelter, where at large 
The shepherd strays, a rolling hut his home. 
Thither he comes with spring-time, there 

abides 
All summer, and at sunrise ye may hear 
His flageolet to liquid notes of love 
Attuned, or sprightly fife resounding far. 
Nook is there none, nor tract of that vast 

space [have 

Where passage opens, but the same shall 
Jn turn its visitant, telling there his hours 
In unlabonous pleasure, with no task 
More toilsome than to carve a beechen bowl 
P"or spnng or fountain, which the traveller 

finds. 
When through the region he pursues at will 
1 1 is devious course. A glimpse of such 

sweet life 
I saw wlien, from the melancholy walls 
Of Coslar, once imperial, I renewed 
My daily walk along that wide champaign. 
That, reaching to her gates, spreads east 

and west, 
And nortlnvards, from beneath the moun- 
tainous verge 
Of the Hercynian forest. Yet, hail to you 
Moors, mountains, headlands, and ye hollow 

vales, 
Ve long deep channels for the Atlantic's 

voice. 
Powers of my native region ! Ye that seize 
The heart with firmer grasp ! Your snows 

and streams 
Ungovernable, and your terrifying winds. 
That howl so dismally for him who treads 
Companionless your awful solitudes ! 
There, 'tis the shepherd's task the wmter 

long 
To wait upon the stf)rms r of their approach 
Sagacious, into sheltering coves he diives 
His flock, and thither from tlie homestead 

bears 
A toilsome burden up the craggy ways, 
And ileals it out their regular nourishment 
Strewn on the frozen snow. And wlien the 

spring 
Looks out, and all the pastures dance with 

lambs. 
And wlicn the fiock, with warmer weather, 

climbs 



Higher and higher, hnn his office leads 
To watch tlieir goings, whatsoever track 
The wanderers choose. For this he quits 

his home 
At day-spring, and no sooner doth the sun 
Begin to strike him v/ith a fire-like heat, 
Than he lies down upon some shining rock 
And breakfasts with his dog. When they 

have stolen, 
As is their wont, a pittance from strict time, 
For rest not needed or exchange of love. 
Then fi-om his couch he starts ; and now 

his feet 
Crush out a livelier fragrance from the 

flowers 
Of lowly thyme, by Nature's skill enwrought 
In the wild turf : the lingering dews of 

morn [hies, 

Smoke round him, as from hill to hill he 
His staff protending like a hunter's spear, 
Or by its aid leaping from crag to crag, 
And o'er the brawling beds of unbridgrd 

streams. 
Philosophy, methinks, at Fancy's call, 
Might deign to follow him through what he 

does 
Or sees in his day's march ; himself he 

feels. 
In those vast regions where his service lies, 
A freeman, wedded to his life of hope 
And hazard, and Iiard labor interchanged 
With that majestic indolence so dear 
To native man A rambling schoolboy, 

thus 
I felt his presence in his own domain, 
As of a lord and master, or a power. 
Or genius, under Nature, under God, 
Presiding ; and severest solitude 
Had more commanding looks when he was 

there 
When up the lonely brooks on rainy days 
Angling I went, or trod the trackless hills 
By mists bewildered, suddenly mine eyjs 
Have glanced upon him distant, a few steps, 
In size a giant, stalking through thick fog. 
His sheep like Greenland bears; or, as he 

stepped 
Beyond the boundary line of some hill 

shadow, 
His form hath flashed upon me, glorified 
By the deep radiance of the setting sun ; 
Or him have I descried in distant sk}', 
A solitary object and sublime. 
Above all height ! like an aerial cross 
Stationed alone upon a spiry rock 
Of tlie Chartreuse, for worship. Thus wai 

man 



I 



THE PRELUDE. 



5S? 



Ennobled outwardly before my sight, 

And'th..s my heart was early introduced 

To an unconscious love and reverence 

Of human nature ; hence the human form 

To me became an index of delight, 

Of grace and honor, power and worthiness. 

jM-anwhile this creature — spiritual almost 

As those of books, but more exalted far ; 

Far more of an imaginative form 

Than the gay Corin of the groves, who 

lives 
For his own fancies, or to dance by the 

hour. 
In coronal, with Phyllis in the midst — 
Was, for the purposes of kind, a man 
With the most common ; husband, father ; 

learned, 
Could teach, admonish ; suffered with the 

rest 
From vice and folly, wretchedness and fea*- ; 
Of this I little saw, cared less for it, 
But something must have felt. 

Call ye these appearances — 
Which I beheld of shepherds in my youth. 
This sanctity of Nature given to man — 
A shadow, a delusion, ye who pore 
On the dead letter, miss the spirit of things ; 
Whose truth is not a motion or a sh.ips 
Instinct with vital functions but a block 
Or waxen image which yourselves have 

made, 
And ye adore ! But blessed be the God 
Of Nature and ot Mar. that this was so ; 
That men before my mcxperienced eyes 
Did first present themselves thus purified, 
Removed, and to a distance that was fit ; 
And so we all of us in some degree 
Are led to knowledge, wheresoever led. 
And liowsoever ; were it otherwise, 
And we found evil fast as we find good 
In our first years, or think th?t it is found, 
How could the innocent heart bear up and 

live! 
But doubly fortunate my lot ; not here 
Alone, that something of a better hfe 
Perliaps was round me tkan it is the privi- 
lege 
Of most to move in, but that first I looked 
At Man through objects that were great or 

fair ; 
First communed with him by their help. 

And thus ' 
Was founded a sure safeguard and defence 
Against the weight of meanness, selfish 

cares, 
Coarse manners, vulgar passions, that beat 



On all sides from the ordinary world 

In which we tiaflfic. Starting from thi» 

point 
I had my face turned toward the truth, be- 
gan 
With an advantage furnished by that kind 
Of prepossession, witliout which the soul 
Receives no knowledge that can bring forth 

good, 
No genuine insight ever comes to her. 
From the lestraint of over-watchful eyes 
Preserved, I moved about, year after year, 
Happy, and now most thankful that my 

walk 
Was guarded from too early intercourse 
With the deformities of crowded life. 
An ' those ensuing laughters and contempts, 
Self-pleasing, which, if we would wish to 

think 
Witli a due reverence on earth's rightful 

lord. 
Here placed to be the inheritor of heaven, 
Will not p:inut us ; but pursue the mind, 
That to de\ c)t'on wil'nngly would rise, 
Into the temple and the temple's heart. 

Yet deem not. Friend ! that human kind 

with mc 
Thus early took a place pre-eminent ; 
Nature herself was, at this unripe time, 
But secondary to my own pr.rsuits -r 

And animal activities, and all 
Their trivial pleasures ; and when these had 

drooped 
And gradually expired, and Nature, prized 
For iicr own sake, became my joy, i /eh 

then — 
And upwards through late youth, until hot 

less 
Than twoand-twenty summers had ''^eij 

told— 
Was Man in my affections and regards 
Subordinate to her, her visible forms 
And viewless agencies : a passion, she, 
A rap ure often, and immediate love 
Ever at hand ; he, only a delight 
Occasional, an accidental grace, 
His hour being not yet come. F^r le=s -.' d 

then [t. V. d 

The inferior creatures, beast or birc', it- 
My spirit to that gentleness of love 
(Though they had long been carefully jI> 

served), 
Won from me those minute obeisancec 
Of tenderness, which I may number n*^ v 
With my first blessings. Nevertheless oq 

these 



55^ 



THE PRELUDE. 



The light of beauty did not fall in vain, 
Or grandeur circumfuse them to no end. 

But when that first poetic faculty 
Of plain Imagination and severe, 
No longer a mute mfluence of the soul, 
Ventured, at some rash Muse's earnest call. 
To try her strength among harmonious 

words ; 
And to book-notions and the rules of art 
Did knowingly conform itself, there came 
Among the simple shapes of human life 
A wilfulness of fancy and conceit ; 
And Nature and her objects beautified 
These fictions, as in some sort, in their 

turn. 
They burnished her. From touch of this 

new power 
Nothing was safe : the elder-tree that grew 
Beside the well-known charnel-house had 

then 
A dismal look : the yew-tree had its ghost, 
That took his station there for ornament :* 
The dignities of plain occurrence then 
Were tasteless, and truth's golden mean, a 

point 
Where no sufficient pleasure could be 

found. 
Then, if a widow, staggering with the blow 
Of her distress, was known to have turned 

her steps 
To the cold gave in which her husband 

slept, 
One night, or haply more than one, through 

pain 

?r half-insensate impotence of mind, 
he fact was caught at greedily, and there 
She must be visitant the whole year tlirough, 
Wetting the turf with never-ending tears. 

Through quaint obliquities I might pur- 
sue 
These cravings ; when the foy-glove, one by 

one, 
Upwards through every stage of the tall 

stem. 
Had shed beside the public way its bells, 
And stood of all dismantled, save the last 
Left at the tapering ladder's top, that 

seemed 
To bend as doth a slender blade of grass 
Tipped with a rain-drop, Fancy loved to 

seat, 
Beneath the plant despoiled, but crested 

still 
With this last relic, soon itself to fall. 
Some vagrant mother, whose arch little 

ooest 



All unconcerned by her dejected plight, 
Laughed as with rival eagerness tlieir hands 
Gathered the purple cups which round tliem 

lay. 
Strewing the turf's green slope, 

A diamond light 
(Whene'er the summer sun, declining. 

smote 
A smooth rock wet with constant springs) 

was seen 
Sparkling from out a copse-clad bank that 

rose 
Fronting our cottage. Oft b -side the 

hearth 
Seated, with open door, often and long 
Upon this restless lustre have I gazed, 
That made my fancy restless as itself. 
'Twas now for me a burnished silve-r 

shiold 
Suspended over a knight's tomb, who lay 
Inglorious, buried in the dusky wood: 
An entrance now into some magic cave 
Or palace built by fairies of the rock ; 
Nor could 1 have been bribed to disenchant 
The spectacle, by visiting the spot. 
Thus wilful Fancy, in no hurtful rnood. 
Engrafted far-fetched shapes on feelingt 

bred 
By pure Imagination : busy Po\v<;r 
She was, and with her ready pupil turned 
Instinctively to human passions, then 
Least understood. Yet, 'mid the fervent 

swarm 
Of these vagaries, with an eye so rich 
As mine was through the bounty of a grand 
And lovely region, I had forms distinct 
To steady me : each airy thought revolved. 
Round a substantial centre, which at once 
Incited it to motion, and controlled. 
I did not pine like one in cities bred. 
As was thy melancholy lot, dear Friend I 
Great Spirit as thou art, in endless dreams 
Of sickliness, disjoining, joining, things 
Witlioiit the light of knowledge. Where 

the harm, [ease 

If, when the woodman languished with dis- 
Induced by sleeping nightly on the ground 
Within his sod-built cabin, Indian-wise, 
I called the pangs of disappointed love, 
And all the sad etcetera of the wrong. 
To help him to his grave ? Meanwliile the 

man, 
If not already from the woods retired 
To die at home, was haply as I knew. 
Withering by slow degrees, 'mid gentle airs, 
Birds, running streams, and hills so beau* 
tifui 



i 



THE PRELUDE. 



559 



On golden evenings, while the charcoal 

pile 
Breathed up its smoke, an image of his 

ghost 
Or spirit that full soon must take her flight. 
Nor shall we no: be tending towards that 

point 
Of sound humanity to which our Tale 
Leads, though by sinuous ways, if here I 

show 
How Fancy, in a season when she wove 
Those slender cords, to guide the uncon- 
scious Boy 
For the Man's sake, could feed at Nature's 

call 
Some pensive musings which might well be- 
seem 
Maturer years. 

A grove there is whose boughs 
Strjtch from the western marge of Tluirs- 

tonmere, 
With length of shade so thick that whoso 

glides 
Along the line of low-roofed water, moves 
As in a clo.ster. Once — while, in that 

shade 
Loitering, I watched the golden beams of 

light 
Flung from the setting sun, as they reposed 
In silent beauty on the naked ridge 
Of a high eastern hill — thus flowed my 

thoughts 
In a pure stream of words fresh from the 

heart : 
Dear native Regions, wheresoe'er shall 

close 
My mortal course, there will I think on you ; 
Dying, will cast on you a backward look ; 
Even as this setting sun (albeit the Vale 
Is nowhere touched by one memorial gleam) 
Dotli with the fond remains of his last 

power 
Still linger, and a farewell lustre sheds 
On the dear mountain-tops where first he 

rose. 

Enough of humble arguments ; recall, 
Hy Song ! those high emotions which thy 

voice 
Has heretofore made known ; that bursting 

forth 
or hy.npathy, inspiring and inspired, 
Wh.m everywhere a vital pulse was felt, 
And all the several frames of things, like 

stars, 
Through everv mnr'nitude dist'ncuishable, 
Shone mutually indebted, or half lost 



Each in the other's blaze, a galaxy 

Of life and glory. In the midst stood Man, 

Outwardly, inwardly contemplated, 

As, of all vis.ble natures, crown, though 

born 
Of dust, and kindred to the worm ; a Being, 
Both in percejition and discernment, first 
In every capabihty of rapture, 
Throufdi the divine etlcct of power and 

love ; 
As, more than anything we know, instinct 
With godhead, and, by reason and by will, 
Acknowledging dependency sublime. 

Ere long, the lonely mountains left, 1 

move, 
Begirt, from day to day, with temporal 

shapes 
Of vice and folly thrust upon my view. 
Objects of sport, and ridicule, -.nd scorn, 
Manners and characters discriminate, 
And little bustling passions tha: eclipse. 
As well they might, the impersonated 

thought, 
The idea, or abstraction of the kind. 

An idler among academic bowers, 
Such was my new condition, as at large 
Has been set forth ; yet here the vulgai 

light 
Of present, actual, superficial life. 
Gleaming through coloring of other times, 
Old usages and local privilege. 
Was welcomed, softened, if not solemnized, 
This notwithstanding, being brought more 

near 
To vice and guilt, forerunning wrctchedncs.s, 
I trembled, — thought, at times, of human life 
WMth an indefinite terror and dismay, 
Si:ch as the storms and angry elements 
Had bred in me ; but gloomier far, a dim 
Analogy to uproar and misrule, 
Disquiet, danger,. and obscurity. 

It might be ti ! 1, (but wherefore speak of 

things 
Common to all ?) that, seeing, I was led 
Gravely to ponder — judging between good 
And evil, not as for the mind's delight 
But for her guidance — one who was to acf^ 
As sometimes to the best of feeble means 
1 did, by human sympathy impelled : 
And, tlirough dislike and most offensive 

pain. 
Was to the truth conducted ; of this faith 
Never forsaken, that, by actin j; well. 
And understanding, I should le?rn to love 
J The end of life, and ever} thing we know. 



50o 



THE PRELUDE. 



Grave Teacher, stern Preceptress ! for at 

times 
Thou canst put on an aspect most severe ; 
London, to thee I willingly return. 
Erewhile my verse played idly with iie 

flowers 
Enwrought upon thy mantle; satisfied 
With that amusement, and a simple look 
Of child-like inquisition now and then 
Cast upwards on thy countenance, to detect 
Some inner meanings which might harbor 

there. 
lUiL how could I in mood so light indulge. 
Keeping such fresh remembrance of the day 
When, having thridded the long labyrinth 
Ot the suburban villages, 1 first 
Entered thy vast dominion. On the roof 
Of an itinerant vehicle 1 sate, 
With vulgar men about me, trivial forms 
Of houses, pavement, streets, of men and 

things,— 
INIcan shapes on every side ; but, at the 

instant 
Wiien to myself it fairly might be said. 
The threshold now is overpast, (how strange 
That aught external to the living mind 
Should have such mighty sway ! yet so it 

was), 
A weight of ages did at once descend 
Upon my heart ; no thought embodied, no 
Distinct remembrances, but weight and 

power, — 
Power growing under weight : alas! I feel 
That 1 am trifling r 'twas a moment's pausc,^ 
All that took place within me came and 

went 
As in a moment ; yet with Time it dwells, 
And grateful memory, as a thing divine. 

The curious traveller, who, from open day. 
Hath passed with torches into some huge 

cave, 
The Grotto of Antiparos, or the Den 
In old time haunted by that Danish Witch, 
Yordas ; he looks around and sees the vault 
Widening on all sides ; sees, or thinks he 

sees. 
Erelong, the massy roof above his head, 
That instantly unsettles and recedes, — ■ 
Substance and shadow, light and darkness, 

all 
Commingled, making up a canopy 
Of shapes and forms and tendencies to shape 
That shift and vanish, change and inter- 
change 
Like spectres, — ferment silent and sul^lime 1 
That after a short space works less and less. 



Till, every effort, every motion goiit, 
The scene before him stands ii. p^fft<^ .jew 
Exposed, and lifeless as a writ^^en bocl / — 
But let him pause awhile, and lookaga.n. 
And a new quickening shall succeed, at first 
Beginning timidly, then creeping fast, 
Till the whole cave, so late a senseless mass 
Busies the eye with images and forms 
Boldly assembled, — here is shadowed forth 
From tiie projections, wrinkles, cavities, 
A variegated landscape, — there the shape 
Of some gigantic warrior clad in mail. 
The ghostly semblance of a hooded monk, 
Veiled nun, or pilgrim resting on his staff 
Strange congregation! yet not slow to meet 
Eyes that perceive through minds that ciin 
inspire. 

Even in such sort had I at first been 
moved, 
Nor otherwise continued to be moved. 
As explored the vast metropolis, 
Fount of my country's destiny and tl : 

world's : 
That great emporium, chronicle at once 
And burial-place of passions, and their home 
Imperial, their chief living residence. 

With strong sensations teeming as it did 
Of past and present, such a place must 

needs 
Have pleased me, seeking knowledge at that 

time 
For less than craving power ; yet knowledge 

came. 
Sought oi unsought, and influxes of power 
Came, of tliemselves, or at her call derived 
In fits of kindliest apprehensiveness. 
From all sides, when whate'er was in itself 
Capacious found, or seemed to find, in me 
A correspondent amplitude of mind ; 
Such is the strength and glory of our youth' 
The human nature unto which 1 felt 
That I belonged, and reverenced with love, 
Was not a punctual presence, but a spirit 
Diffused through time and space, with aid 

derived 
Of evidence from monuments, erect, 
Prostrate, or leaning towards their common 

rest 
In earth, the widely scattered wreck sublime 
Of vanished nations, or more clearly drawn 
From books and what tliey picture and 

record. 

'Tis true, the history of our native land, 
With those of Greece compared and popuUl 
Rome, „ui rt-jilc 



THE PRELUDE. 



501 



And in our high wrought modem narratives 

Stript ot their harmonizing soul, the Uie 

Of manners and tamiliar mcidents, 

Had never much delighted me. And less 

Than other intellects had mine been used 

To lean upon intrinsic circumstance 

Of record or tradition ; but a sense 

Of what in the Great City iiad been done 

And suffered, and was doing, suffering, still, 

Weighed with me, could support the test of 

thought ; 
And, in despite of all that had gone by, 
Or was departmg never to return, 
There 1 conversed with majesty and power 
Like independent natures. Hence the place 
Was thronged with impregnations like the 

Wilds 
In which my early feelings had been nursed — 
Bare hills and valleys, full of caverns, rocks, 
And audible seclusions, dashing lakes, 
Echoes and waterfalls and pointed crags 
That into music touch the passing wind. 
Here then my young imagination found 
No uncongenial element ; could iiere 
Among new objects serve or give command, 
Even as the heart's occasions might require, 
To forward reason's else too-scrupulous 

march. 
The effect was, still more elevated views 
Of human nature. Neither vice nor guilt, 
Debasement undergone by body or mind, 
Noi all the misery forced upon my sight. 
Misery not lightly passed, but sometimes 

scanned 
Most feelingly, could overthrow my trust 
in wiiat we tnay become; induce belief 
That I was ignorant, had been falsely taught, 
A solitary, who with vain conceits 
Had been inspired, and walked about in 

dreams. 
Fi'jm those sad scenes when meditation 

turned, 



Lo ! everything that was indeed divine 
; Retained its purity inviolate. 
Nay brighter shone, by this portentous 

gloom 
Set off ; such opposition as aroused 
The mind of Adam, yet in Paradise 
Though fallen from bliss, when in the East 

he saw 
* Darkness ere day's mid course, and morn- 
ing light 
More orient in the western cloud, that drew 
O'er the blue firmament a radiant white. 
Descending slow with something heavenly 
fraught. 

i Add also, that among the multitudes 
, Of that huge city, oftentimes was seen 
'■ Affectingly set forth, more than elsewhere 
; Is possible, the unity of man. 
One spirit over ignorance and vice 
I Predominant, in good and evil hearts ; 
! One sense for moral judgments, as one eve 
I For the sun's light. The soul when smitten 

thus 
I By a sublime idea whencesoe'er 
Vouchsafed for union or communion, feeds 
On the pure bliss, and takes her rest with 
God. 

Thus from a very early age, O Friend ! 
My thoughts by slow gradations had been 

drawn 
To human kind, and to the good and ill 
Of human life : Nature had led me on ; 
And oft amid the " busy hum '' I seemed 
To travel independent of her help, 
.A.s if I had forgotten her ; but no. 
The world of humankind outweighed not 

hers 
In my habitual thoughts ; the scale of love. 
Though filling daily, still was light, com 

pared 
With that in which her mighty objects lay 



BOOK NINTH. 



RESIDENCE IN FRANCE. 

EVHN as a river,— -partly (it might seem) 
Yielding to old remembrances, and swayed 
In part by fear to shape a way direct, 
That would engulph him soon in the raven- 
ous sea — 
rurns, and will measure back his course, far 

back, 
Seeking the very regions which he crossed 



I In his first outset ; so have we, my Friend 
I Turned and returned with intricate delay. 
I Or as a traveller who has gained the brow 
I Ot some aerial Down, while there he halts 
I For breathing-time, is tempted to review 
j The region left behind him ; and, if aught 
1 Deserving notice have escaped regard. 
Or been regarded with too careless eye, 

* From Miitou, Par. Lost. xi. 204. 



$62 



7'HE PRF.fArDE. 



Strives, from that height, with one and yet 

one niore 
Last look, to make the best amends lie may . 
So have we lini.^ered. Now we start atresii 
Wah courage, and new hope risen on our 

toil. 
Fair greetings to this shapeless eagerness, 
Whene'er it comes ! needful in work so long, 
riiricb needtul to the argument which now 
4v'a.its us ! Oh, how much unlike the past ? 

Free as a colt at pasture on the hill, 
I ranged at large, througlj London's wide 

domain, 
Month after month. Obscurely did I live. 
Not seeking frequent intercourse with men 
By literature, or elegance, or rank, 
Distinguished. Scarcely was a year thus 

spent 
Ere I forsook the crowded solitude, 
With less regret for its luxurious pomp, 
And all the nicely-guarded shows of art, 
Th.m for the humble book-stalls in the 

streets, 
Exposed to eye and hand where'er I turned, 

France lured me forth ; the realm that I 

had crossed 
So lately, journeying toward the snow-clad 

Alps. 
But now, relinquishing the scrip and staff, 
And all enjoyment which the summer sun 
Sheds round the steps of those who meet the 

day 
With motion constant as his own, I went 
Prepared to sojourn in a pleasant town, 
Washed by the current of the stately Loire. 

Through Paris lay mv readiest course, and 

Iher- 
Sojourning a few days, I visited 
in haste each spot of old or recent fame, 
The latter chieHy ; from the field of Mars 
Down to thv, suburbs ot St. Antony, 
And from Mont Martre southward to the 

Don 
Of Genevieve. In both her clamorous Halls, 
The National Synod and the Jacobins, 
1 saw the Revolutionary Power 
Tossed like a ship at anchor, rocked by 

storms ; 
The Arcades I traversed in the Palace huge 
Of Orleans ; coasted round and round the 

line 
Of Tavern, Brothel, Gaming-house, and 

Shop, 
Great rendezvous of worst and best, th^ walk 
Of all who had a purpose, or had not ; 



I stared and listened, with a stranger's ears, 
To Hawkers and Haranguers. iuibbub wild' 
.Xiul hissing Factujnists with ardent eyes. 
In knots, or pairs, or single. Not a locjk 'h 
Hope takes, or Doubt or Fear is forced tlr™ 

wear, 
But seemed therv, present ; and I scanned 

them all. 
Watched every gesture uncontrollable, 
Of anger, and vexation, and despite. 
All side by side, and struggling face to face, 
With gayety and dissolute idleness. 

Where silent zephyrs sported with the 

dust 
And from the rubbish gathered up a stone, 
And pocketed the relic, in tlie guise 
Of an enthusiast, yet, in honest truth, 
I looked for something that I could not 

f^nd. 
Affecting more emotion than 1 felt ; 
For 'tis most certain that these various 

sights, 
However potent tl.eir first shock, with me 
Appeared to recompense the traveller's 

pains 
Less than the painted Magdalene of Le 

Brun, 
A beauty exquisitely wrought, with hair 
Dishevelled, gleaming eyes, and rueful 

cheek 



Pale and bedropped with overflowing tears, 



'J 



But hence to my more jiermanent abode 
I hasten ; there, by novelties in speech, 
Domestic manners, customs, gestures, 

looks, 
And all the attire of ordinary life, 
Attention was engrossed j and, thus 

amused, 
I stood 'mid those concussions, uncon- 
cerned. 
Tranquil almost, and careless as a flower 
Glassed in a green-house, or a parlor shrub 
That spreads its leaves in unmolested 

peace, 
While every bush and tree, the country 

through. 
Is shaking to the roots : indifference this 
Which may seem strange ; but I was un- 
prepared 
With needful knowledge, had abruptly 

passed 
Into a theatre whose stage was filled 
And busy with an action far advanced. 
Like others, I had skimmed, and sometime 
read 



THK I'K ELUDE. 



563 



Witli care, tlie nuibter pamphlets of the 

day ; 
Nor wanted siicli half-insi;^ht as .2;rew wild 
Upon that meagre soil, lielped out by talk 
And public news ; but having never seen 
A ciiionicle that might suffice to show 
Whence the main organs of the public 

power 
Had sprung, their transmigrations, when 

and how 
Accomplished, giving thus unto events 
A form and body ; all things were to me 
Loose and disjointed, and the affections left 
Without a vital interest. At that time. 
Moreover, the first storm was overblown, 
And the strong hand of outward violence 
Locked up in quiet. For myself, I fear 
Now m connection with so great a theme 
To speak (as I must be compelled to do) 
Of one so unimportant ; night by night 
Did 1 frequent the formal haunts of men, 
Whom, in the city, privilege of birth 
Sequestered from the rest, societies 
Polished in arts, and in punctilio versed ; 
Whence, and from deeper causes, all dis- 
course 
Of good and evil of the time was shunned 
With scrupulous care ; but these restrictions 

soon 
Proved tedious, and I gradually withdrew 
Into a noisier world, and thus ere long 
Became a patriot ; and my heart was all 
Given to the people, and my love was 
theirs, 

A band of military Officers, 
Then stationed in the city, were the chief 
Of my associates : some of these wore 

swords 
That hid been seasoned in the wars, and all 
Were men well-born ; the chivalry of 

France. 
In age and temper differing, they had yet 
One spirit ruling in each heart; alike 
( -avc only on:, hereafter to be named) 
Were bent upon undoing what was done : 
This was their rest and only hope ; there- 
with 
No fear had they of bad becoming worse 
For worst to them was come ; nor would 

have stirred, 
Or deemed it worth a moment's thought to 

stir, 
In anything, save only as the act 
Look<(l tivthcrward. One, reckoning by 

y •IIS, 
Was iu the prime of aunhood, and erewhile 



He had sate lord in many tenuer hearts ; 
Though heedless of such honors TiOw, and 

ciianged : 
His temper was quite mastered by the 

times, 
And they had blighted him, had eaten away 
The beauty of his person, doing wrong 
Alike to body and to mind : his port. 
Which once had been erect and open, now 
Was stooping and contracted, and n face. 
Endowed by Nature with her fairc t gifts 
Of synmietry and light and bloo.n, ex- 
pressed. 
As much as any that was ever seen, 
A ravage out of season, made by thoughts 
Unhealthy and vexatious. With the hour 
That from the press of Paris duly brought 
Its ireiglit of public news, the fever rame, 
A punctual visitant, to shaks this man, 
Disarmed his voice and fanned his yellow 

cheek 
Into a thousand colors ; while he read. 
Or mused, his sword was Iiaunted by his 

touch 
Continually, like an uneasy place 
In his own body. 'Twas in truth an hour 
Of universal ferment ; mildest men 
Were agitated ; and commotions, strife 
Of passion and opinion, filled the walls 
Of peaceful houses with unquiet sounds. 
The soil of common life was, at that time, 
Too hot to tread upon. Oft said 1 tiien. 
And not then only, " What a mockery this 
Of history, the past and that to come ! 
Now do I feel how all men are deceived, 
Reading of nations and their works, in 

faith, 
Faith given to vanity and emptiness ; 
Oh ! laughter for the page that would re- 
flect 
To future times the face of wliat now is ! " 
The land all swarmed with passion, like 3 

plain 
Devoured by locusts, — Carra, Gorsas,— add 
A hundred other names, forgotten now 
Nor to be heard of more ; yet, they were 

powers. 
Like earthquakes, shocks repeated day by 

day. 
And feit through every nook of town and 
field. 

Such was the state of things. Meanwhile 
the chief 
Of my associates stood prepared for flight, 
To augment the band of emigrants in arms 
Upon the borders of the Rhine, and leagued 



564 



THE PRELUDE. 



With foreign foes mustered for instant war. 
This was their undisguised intent, and thev 
Were waiting with tlie wliole of their de- 
sires 
The moment to depart. 

An Englishman, 
Born in a land whose very name appeared 
To hcense some unruliness of mind ; 
A. stranger, with youth's further privilege, 
And the indulgence that a half-learnt 

speech 
Wins from the courteous ; I, who had been 

else 
Shunned and not tolerated, freely lived 
With these defenders of the Crown, and 

talked, 
And heard their notions ; nor did they dis- 
dain 
The wish to bring me over to their cause. 

But though untaught by thinking or by 

books 
To reason well of polity or law, 
And nice distinctions, then on every tongue, 
Of natural rights and civil ; and to acts 
Of nations and their passing interests, 
(If with unworldly ends and aiiiis compared) 
Almost indifferent, even tlie historian's tale 
Prizing but little otherwise than I prized 
Tales of the poets, as it made the heart 
Beat high, and filled the fancy with fair 

forms. 
Old heroes and their sufferings and their 

deeds ; 
Yet in the regal sceptre, and the pomp 
Of orders and degrees, I nothing found 
'J'hen, or had ever, even in crudest youth, 
That dazzled rne, but rather what 1 mourned 
And ill could brook, beholding that the best 
Ruled not, and feeling that they ought to 

rule. 

For, born in a poor district, and which 

yet 
Retaineth more of ancient homeliness 
Than any or.her nook of English ground, 
tt was my fortune scarcely to have seen. 
Through the whole tenor of my school-day 

time, 
The face of one who, whether boy or man, 
Was vested with attention or respect 
Through claims of wealtii or blood ; nor was 

it least 
Of many benefits, in later years 
Derived from academic institutes 
▲nd rules, that they held something up to 

view 



Of a Republic, where all stood thus far 
Upon equal ground ; that we were brothers 

all 
In honor, as in one community, 
Schclars and gentlemen ; where, further 

more. 
Distinction open lay to all that came, 
And wealth and titles were in less esteem 
Than talents, worth, and prosperous in- 
dustry. 
Add unto this, subservience from the first 
To presences of God's mysterious power 
Made manifest in Nature's sovereignty, 
And fellowsliip with venerable books, 
To sanction the proud workings of the scul, 
And mountain liberty. It could not be 
But that one tutored bhus should look with 

awe 
Upon the faculties of man, receive 
Gladly the highest promises, and hail, 
.As best, the government of equal rights 
.And individual worth. And hence, O 

Friend ! 
If at the first great outbreak I rejoiced 
Less than might well benefit my youth, the 

cause 
In part lay here, that unto me the events 
Seemed nothing out of nature's certain 

course, 
A gift that was come rather late than soon. 
No wonder, then, if advocates like these. 
Inflamed by passion, blind with prejudice. 
And stung with injury, at this riper day, 
Were impotent to make my hopes put on 
The shape of theirs, my understandiug bend 
In honor to their honor: zeal, which yet 
Had slumbered, now in opposition burst 
Forth like a Polar summer : every word 
They uttered was a dart, by counter-wir.ds 
Blown back upon themselves; their reason 

seemed 
Confusion-stricken by a higher power 
Than human understanding, their discourse 
Maimed, spiritless ; and in their weakness 

strong, 
1 triumphed. 

Meantime, day by day, the roads 
Were crowded with the bravest youth of 

France, 
And all the promptest of her spirits, linked 
In gallant soldiership, and posting on 
To meet the war upon her frontier bounds 
Vet at tliis very moment do tears start 
Into mine eyes : 1 do not say I weep — 
1 wept not then, — but tears have dimmed 

mv sight, 
In memory of the farewells of that time, 



THE PRELUDE. 



56s 



Domestic sovcriiiGjs, female fortitude 
At dearest separation, jjatriot love 
And self-devotion, and terrestrial iiope, 
Encouraged with a martyr's confidence ; 
Even files of strangers merely seen Imt once. 
And for a moment, men from far with 

sound 
Of music, martial tunes, and banners 

spread. 
Entering the city, here and tncre a face 
Or person singled out among the rest, 
Vet still a stranger and beloved as such ; 
Even by these passing spectacles my heart 
Was oftentimes uplifted, and they seemed 
Aiguments sent from Heaven to prove the 

cause 
Good, pure, which no one could stand up 

against, 
Who was not lost, abandoned, selfish, 

proud, 
Mean, miserable, wilfully depraved, 
Hater perverse of equity and truth. 

Among that band uf Officers was one, 
Already hinted at, of other mould — 
A patriot, Ihence rejected by the rest. 
And with an oriental loathing spurned, 
As of a diflferent cast. A meeker man 
Than this lived never, nor a more benign, 
Meek though enthusiastic. Injuries 
Made Jiim more gracious, and his nature 

then 
Did breathe its sweetness out most sensibly, 
As aromatic flowers on Alpine turf. 
When foot hath crushed them. He through 

the events 
Of that great change wandered in perfect 

faith, 
As through a book, an old romance, or tale 
Of Fairy, or some dream of actions wrought 
Behind the summer clouds. By birth he 

ranked 
With the most noble, but unto the poor 
Among mankind he was in service bound, 
As by some tie invisible, oaths professed 
To a religious order. Man he loved 
As man ; and, to the mean and the obscure, 
And all the homely in their homely works, 
Transferred a courtesy which had no air 
Of condescension ; but did rather seem 
A passion and a gallantry, like that 
Which he, a soldier, in his idler day 
Had paid to woman . somewhat vain he 

was, 
Or seemed so, yet it was not vanity, 
But fondness, and a kind of radiant joy 
Diffused around him, while he was intent 



On works of love or freedom, or revolved 
Complacently the progress of a cause 
Whereof he was a part •. yet this was meek 
And placid, and took nothmg from the mar 
That was deli'::htful Oft in solitude 
With him did 1 discourse about the end 
Of ci''"il government, and its wisest forms; 
Of ancient royalty, and chartered rights, 
Custom and habit, novelty and change ; 
Of self-respect, and virtue in the few 
For patrimonial honor set apart. 
And ignorance in the laboring multitude. 
For he, to all intolerance indisposed, 
Balanced these contemplations in his mind ; 
And I, who at that time was scarcely clipped 
Into the turmoil, bore a sounder judgment 
Than later da^s allowed ; carried about me 
With less alloy to its integrity, 
The experience of past ages, as, thiougu 

help 
Of books and common life, it makes sure 

way 
To youthful minds, by objects over near 
Not pressed upon, nor dazzled or misled 
By struggling with the crowd for present 

ends. 



But though not deaf, nor obstinate to find 
Error without excuse upon the side 
Of them who strove against us, more delight 
We took, and let this freely be confessed, 
I In painting to ourselves the miseries 
I Of royal courts, and that voluptuous life 
' Unfeeling, where the man who is of soul 
I The meanest thrives the most j where dig* 

nity, 
1 True personal dignity, abideth not ; 
I A light, a cruel, and vain world cut off 
I From the natural inlets of just sentiment, 
I From lowly sympathy and chastening truth ; 
Where good and evil interchange their 
I names, 

And thirst for bloody spoils abroad is paired 
With vice at home. We added dearest 

themes — 
Man and his noble nature, as it is 
The gift which God has placed within his 

power, 
His blind desires and steady faculties 
Capable of clear truth, the one to break 
Pondage, the other to build liberty 
On firm foundations, making social life. 
Through knowledge spreading and impensb 

able, 
As just in regulation, and as pure 
As individual in the wise and good. 



566 



THE PRELUDE. 



We summoned up the honorable deeds 
Of ancient Story, thought of each bright 

spot, 
That would be found in all recorded time, 
Of truth preserved and error passed away : 
Of smgie spirits that catch the Hame from 

Heaven, 
And how the multitudes of men will feed 
And fan each otiier ; thought of sects, how 

keen 
They are to put the appropriate nature on, 
Triumphant over every obstacle 
Of custom, language, country, love, or hate. 
And what they do and suffer tor tlieir creed ; 
How far they travel, and how long endure ; 
How quickly mighty Nations have been 

formed. 
From least begmnmgs ; how, together locked 
By new opinions, scattered tribes have made 
One body, spreading wide as clouds in 

heaven. 
To aspirations then of our own minds 
Did we appeal ; and, finally, beheld 
A living confirmation of the whole 
Before us, in a people from tlie depth 
Of shameful imbecility uprisen, 
Fresh as the morning star. Elate we looked 
Upon their virtues ; saw, in rudest men, 
Self-sacrifice the firmest ; generous love, 
And continence of mind, and sense of right, 
Uppermost in the midst of fiercest strife. 

Oh, sweet it is, in academic groves, 
Or such retirement, Friend ! as we have 

known 
In the green dales beside our Rotha's stream, 
Greta, or Derwent, or some nameless rill, 
To ruminate, with interchange of talk, 
On rational liberty, and hope in man, 
Justice and peace. , But far more sweet such 

toil- 
Toil, say I, for it leads to thoughts abstruse — 
If nature then be standing on the brink 
Of some great trial, and we hear the voice 
Of one devoted, — one whom circumstance 
Hath called upon to embody his deep sense 
In action, give it outwardly a shape, 
And that of benediction, to the wnild. 
Then doubt is not, and trutii is more than 

truth,— 
A hope it is, and a desire , a creed 
Of zeal, by an authority Divine 
Sanctioned, of danger, difficulty, or death.' 
Such conversation, under Attic shades. 
Did Dion hold with Plato ; ripened thus 
For a Deliverer's glorious task, — and such 
He, on that ministry already bound. 



Held with Eudemus and Timonides, 
Surrounded by adventurers in arms, 
When those two vessels with their daring 

freight, 
For the Sicilian Tyrant's overthrow. 
Sailed from Zacynthus, — philosophic war, 
Led by Philosophers. With harder fate, 
Tiiough like ambition, such was lie, 

Friend ! 
Of whom I speak. So Beaupuis (let the 

name 
Stand near the worthiest of Antiquity) 
Fashioned his life; and many a long dis- 
course. 
With like persuasion honored, we main- 
tained : 
He, on his part, accoutred for the worst, 
He perished fighting, in si;preme command, 
Upon the borders of the unhappy Loire, 
For liberty, against deluded men, 
His fellow country-men ; and yet most 

blessed 
In this, that he the fate of later times 
Lived not to see, nor what we now behold, 
Who have as ardent hearts as he had then. 

Along that very Loire, with festal mirth 
Resounding at all hours, and innocent yet 
Of civil slaughter, was our frequent walk ; 
Or in wide forests of continuous shade. 
Lofty and overarched, with open space 
Beneath the trees, clear footing many a 

mile — 
A solemn region. Oft amid those haunts, 
From earnest dialogues 1 slipped in thought, 
And let remembrance steal to other times. 
When, o'er those interwoven roots, moss- 
clad. 
And smooth as marble or a waveless sea, 
Some Hermit, from his cell forth-strayed, 

might pace 
In sylvan meditation undisturbed ; 
As on the pavement of a Gothic church 
Walks a lone Monk, when service hath ex 

pired 
In peace and silence. But if e'er war 

heard, — 
Heard, though unseen. — a devious travellei. 
Retiring or approaching from afar 
With speed and echoes loud of trampling 

hoofs 
From the hard floor reverberated, then 
It was Angelica thundering through the 

woods 
Upon her palfrey, or that gentle maid 
Erminia, fugitive as fair as she. 
Sometimes methought I saw a pair of knighta 



THE PRELUDE. 



S6) 



Joust underneath the trees, that as in storm 
Rocked hii^h above their heads ; anon, the 

din 
Of boisterous merriment, and music's roar, 
In sudden proclamation, burst from haunt 
Of Satyrs in some viewless glade, with dance 
Rejoicing o'er a female in the midst, 
A mortal beauty, their unhappy thrall. 
Tlie width of those huge forests, unto me 
A novel scene, did often in this way 
Master my fancy while 1 wandered on 
Witli that revered companion. And some- 
times — 
When to a convent in a meadow green, 
By a brook-side, we came, a roofless pile, 
And not by reverential touch of Time 
Dismantled, but by violence abrujit — 
In spite of those heart bracing colloquies, 
In spite of real fervor, and of that 
Less genuine and wrought up within mv- 

self— 
I could not but bewail a wrong so harsh, 
And for the Matin-bell to sound no more 
Grieved, and the twilight taper, and the 

cross 
High on the topmost pinnacle, a sign 
( How welcome to the weary traveller's eyes !) 
Of hospitality and peaceful rest. 
And when the partner of those varied walks 
Pointed upon occasion to the site 
Of Romorentin, home of ancient kings, 
To the imperial edifice of Blois, 
Or to that lural castle, name now slipped 
From my remembrance, where a lady lodged. 
By the first Francis wooed, and bound to 

him 
In chains of mutual passion, from the tower, 
As a tradition of the country tells. 
Practised to commune with lier royal knight 
By cressets and love-beacons, intercourse 
'Twi.xt her high-seated residence and his 
F"ar off at Chambord on the i)lain beneath ; 
Even here, though less than with the peace- 
ful house 
Religious, 'mid those frequent monuments 
Of Kings, their voices and their better deeds, 
Imagination, potent to inflame 
At times with virtuous wrath and noble 

scorn. 
Did also often mitigate the force 
Of civic prejudice, tlie bigotry, 
So call it, of a youthful patriot's mind ; 
And on these spots with many gleams I 

looked 
Of cluvalrous delight. Yet not the less. 
Hatred of absolute rule, where will of one 
Is law for all, and of that barren pride 



In them who, by immunities unjust, 
Between the sovereign and the people stand, 
His helper and not theirs, laid stronger hold 
Daily upon me, mixed with pity too 
And love ; for where hope is, there love wil; 

be 
For the abject multitude. And when w 

chanced 
One day to meet a hunger-bitten girl. 
Who crept along fitting her languid gait 
Unto a heifer's motion, by a cord 
Tied to her arm, and picking thus from the 

lane 
Its sustenance, while the girl with pallid 

hands 
Was busy knitting in a heartless mood 
Of solitude, and at the sight my friend 
In agitation said, " 'Tis against that 
That we are fighting,"' ! with him believed 
That a benignant spirit was abroad 
Which might not be withstood, that poverty 
Abject as this would in a little time 
Be found no more, that we sliould see the 

earth 
Unthwarted in her wish to recompense 
'ihe meek, the lowly, patient child of toil. 
All institutes forever blotted out 
That legalized exclusion, empty pomp 
Abolished, sensual state and cruel power. 
Whether by edict of the one or few ; 
And finally, as sum and crown of all, 
Should see the people having a strong hind 
In framing their own laws; whence bjtt-.i 

davs 
To all mankind. But, these things set apai t, 
Was not this single confidence enough 
To animate the mind that ever turned 
A thought to iuiman welfare ? That hence- 
forth 
Captivity by mandate without law 
Should cease ; and open accusation lead 
'I'o sentence in the hearing of the woikl. 
And open punishment, if not the air 
Be free to breathe in, and the heart of man 
Dread nothing. From this height 1 shal 

not stoop 
To humbler matter that d tained us oft 
In thought or conversation, public acts. 
And public persons, and emotions wrought 
Within the breast, as ever varying winds 
Of record or report swept over us ; 
But I might here, instead, repeat a tale,* 
Told by my Patriot friend, of sad events 
That prove to what low depth had struck 

the roots. 



See " Vaudracour and Julia," p. 115. 



Ed. 



S6S 



THE PRELUDE. 



How widely spread the boughs of that old 

tree 
Which, as a deadly mischief, and a fotil 
And black dishonor, France was weary of. 

Oh, happy time of youthful lovers, (thus 
The story niigiit begin,) oh, balmy time, 
In winch a love-knot, on a lady's brow, 
Is tauer then the fairest star in Heaven ! 
So miglit— and with that prelude did begin 
The record ; and, in faithful verse, was given 
The doleful sequel. 

But our little bark 
On a strong river boldly hatli been launched ; 
And from the driving current should we 

turn 
To loiter wilfully vvitliin a creek, 
Howe'er attractive, Fellow voyager ' 
VVould'st thou not chide ? Y'et deem not my 

pains lost : 
For Vaudracour and Julia (so were named 
The ill-fated pair) in that plain tale will 

draw [own 

Tears from the hearts of others, when their 
Shall beat no more. Thou, also, there ma) st 

read, 



At leisure, how the enamoured youth was 
driven, ■■'. 

By public power abased, to fatal crime, 
Nature's rebellion against monstrous law; 
I How, between heart and heart, oppression 
; tlirust 

' Her mandates, severing whom true love had 
1 joined, 

Harassing both : until he sank and pressed 
The couch his fate had made for him ; 

supine. 
Save when the stings of viperous remorse, 
Trying their strength, enforced him to start 

up. 
Aghast and prayerless. Into a deep wood 
He Hed, to shun the haunts of human kind, 
j There dwelt, weakened in spirit more and 
more , 
Nor could the voice of Freedom, which 
I through France 

I Full speLKlily resounded, public hope, 
Or personal memory of his own worst 

wrongs. 
Rouse him ; but, hidden in those gloomy 

shades. 
His days he wasted,— an imbecile mind. 



BOOK TENTH. 



RESIDENCE IN FRANCE. 

CONTINUED. 

It was a beautiful and silent day 

That overspread the countenance of earth, 

'I'hen fading with unusual quietness, — 

A day as beautiful as e'er was given 

To soothe regret, though deepening what i' 

soothed, 
When by the gliding Loire I paused, and 

cast 
Upon his rich domains, vineyard and tilth, 
Green meadow-ground, and many-colored 

woods. 
Again, and yet again, a farewell look ; 
Then from the quiet of that scene passed 

on. 
Bound to the fierce Metropolis. From his 

throne 
The King had fallen, and thai invading 

host- 
Presumptuous cloud, on whose black front 

was written j 

The tender mercies of the dismal wind [ 

That lw)reit— on the plains of Liberty ! 

Had burst innocuous. Say in bolder words, I 



They — who had come elate as eastern 

hunters 
Banded beneath the Great Mogul, when ha 
F.rewhile went forth from Agra or Lahore, 
Rajahs and Onirahs in his train, intent 
To drive their prey enclosed within a ring 
Wide as a province, but, the signal given. 
Before the point of the life-threatening spear 
Narrowing itself by moments— they, rash 

men, 
Had seen the anticipated quarry turned 
Into avengers, from whose wrath they fled 
In terror. Disappointment and dismay 
Remained for all whose fancies had i ; a 

wild 
With evil expectations ; confidence 
And perfect triumph for the better cause, 

The State, as if to stamp the final seal 
On her security, and to the world 
Show what she was, a high and fearless 

soul, 
R.xulting in defiance, or heart-stung 
l>v sharp resentment, or belike to taunt 
With spiteful gratitude the baffled LcaTue. 
That had .itirred up her slackening taculties 



THE PRFJ.rDE. 



5^9 



To a new transiiion, when the Kint; was 

crushed, 
Spared not the empty throne, and in proud 

haste 
Assumed the body and venerable name 
Of a Republic. Lamentable cnmes, 
Tis true, had gone before this hour, dire 

work 
or massacre, in which the senseless sword 
Was prayed to as a judge ; but these were 

past, 
Earth free froir them forever, as was 

thought, — 
Ephemeral monsters, to be seen but once ! 
'J'liings that could only show themselves and 

die. 

Cheered with this hope, to Paris I re- 
turned, 
And ranged, with ardor heretofore unfelt, 
'J'he spacious city, and in progress passed 
The prison where the unhappy Monarch 

lay, 
Associate with his children and his wife 
In bondage; and tlie palace, lately stormed 
With roar of cannon by a funo ■> Lost. 
1 crossed the square (an em])ty aiea then !) 
Of the Carrousel, where so late had lain 
The dead, upon the dying heaped, and 

gazed 
On this and other spots, as doth a man 
Upon a volume who .e contents h-^ knows 
Arc memorable, but from him lock 'd up, 
Being written m a tongue he cannot read, 
So that he questions the mute leaves with 

pain. 
And halt upbraids their silence. But that 

night 
I felt most deeply in what world I was. 
What ground 1 trod on, and wliat air I 

breathed. 
High was my room and lonely, near the 

roof 
Of a laige mansion or hotel, a lodge 
That would have pleased me in more quiet 

times ; 
No-- was it wholly without pleasure then, 
\\ .til unextinguished taper I kejit watch, 
Reading at intervals ; the fear gone by 
Pressed on me almost like a fear to come. 
1 thought of those September massacres, 
Divided from me by one little morith, 
Saw them and touched : the rest was con- 

jared up 
From tragic fictions or true history, 
Remembrances and dim admonishments 
The horse is taught Iiis manage, and no star 



Of wildest course but treads back his own 

steps ; 
For the spent hurricane the air provides 
.As fierce a successor ; the tide retreats 
But to return out of its hiding-place 
In the great deep; all things have second 

birth ; 
The earthquake is not satisfied at once ; 
And in this way I wrought upon myself, 
Until I seemed to hear a voice that cried, 
To the whole city, " Sleep no more." The 
trance [birth ; 

Fled with the voice to which it had given 
But vainly comments of a calmer mind 
Promised soft peace and sweet forgetful- 
I ness. 

I The place, all hushed and silent as it was, 
. Appeared unfit for the repose of night, 
Defenceless as a wood where tigers roam. 

W,lh early morning towards the Palace- 
walk 
; Of O. leans eagerly I turned ; as yet 
\ The ."•tteeis were still, not ho those long 
I A 1 cades ; 

There, 'mid a peal of I'l matched sounds and 

cries, 
That greeted me on entering, I could hear 
Shrill voices from the hawkers in the 

throng, 
Bawl.ng, " Denunciation of the Crimes 
Of Maximilian Robespierre," the hand, 
Prompt as the voice, held forth a printed 

speech, 
The same that had been recently pio- 

nounced. 
When Robespierre, not ignorant for what 

mark 
Some words of ind rect reproof had been 
Intended, lose in hard, hood. and dared 
The man who had an ill surmise of him 
To bi .ng his charge in openness ; whereat, 
When a dead pause ensued, and no one 

stirred 
In silence of all present, from his seat 
Louvet*walked single through the avenue, 
.And took his station in the Tribune, saying 
"I, Robespierre, accuse thee!" Well is 

known 
The inglorious issue of that charge, and 

how 
He, who had launched the startling thr.nder- 

bolt. 
The one bold man, whose voice the attack 

had sounded. 
Was left without a fo'low.^r to discharge 
His perilous duty, and retire lamenting 



?7o 



THE PRELUDE. 



That Heaven's best aid is wasted upon men 
Who to themselves are false. 

But these are things 
Of which I speak, only as they were storm 
Or sunshme to my individual mind, 
No further Let me then relate that now — 
In some sort seeing with my proper eyes 
That Liberty, and Life, and" Death would 

soon 
To the remotest corners of the land 
Lie in the arbitrement of those who ruled 
The capital City ; what was struggled for, 
And by what combatants victory must be 

won ; 
The indecision on their part whose aim 
Seemed best, and the straightforward path 

of those 
Who in attack or in defence were strong 
Through their imjiiety — my inmost soul 
Was agitated ; yea, I could almost 
Have prayed that throughout earth upon all 

men. 
By patient exercise of reason made 
Worthy of liberty, all spirits filled 
With zeal expanding in Truth's holy light, 
Tiie gift of tongues might fall, and power 

arrive 
From the four quarters of the winds to do 
For France, what witliout help she could 

not do, 
A work of honor ; think not that to this 
1 added, work of safety : from all doubt 
Or trepidation for the end (jf things 
Far was I, far as angels are from guilt. 

Yet did I grieve, nor only grieved, but 
thought 
Of opposition and of remedies : 
An insignificant stranger and obscure, 
And one, moreover, little graced with 

power 
Of eloquence even in my native speech, 
And all unfit for tunuilt or intrigue, 
Yet would I at this time with willing heart 
Have undertaken for a cause so great , 
Service however dangerous. 1 revolved 
How much tlie destiny of Man had still 
Hung upon single persons ; that there was, 
Transcendent to all local patrimony, 
One nature, as there is one sun in heaven ; 
Tiiat objects, even as they are great, there- 
by 
Do come within the reacli of humblest 
eyes ; 
^ Th il M;in is only weak tbrough his mis- 
trust 
And want of hope where evidence divine 



Proclaims to him that hope should b.> most 

siire;^. 
Nor did the inexperience of my youth 
I'reclude conviction that a spirit strong 
In hope and trained to noble aspirations, 
A spirit thoroughly faithful to itself. 
Is for Society's unreasoning herd 
A domineering instinct, serves at once 
For way and guide, a fluent receptacle 
That gathers up each petty straggling rill 
And vein of water, glad to be rolled on 
In safe obedience ; that a miufl. whfi^c res' 
Is where it ought to be, in self-restr.iint, 
In circumspection and simplicity, 
Falls rarely in entire discomfiture 
Below its aim, or meets with, from without, 
A treachery that foils it or defeats ; 
And, lastly, if the means on human will. 
Frail human will, dependent should betray 
Him who too boldly trusted them, I felt 
That 'mid the loud distractions of the vvoild 
A sovereign voice subsists within the soul. 
Arbiter undisturbed of right and wrong, 
Of life and death, in majesty severe 
Enjoining, as may best promote the aims 
Of truth and justice, either sacrifice, 
F"rom whatsoever region of our cares 
Or our infirm affections Nature pleads. 
Earnest and bit-nd, against the stem decree. 
On the other side, I called to nimd those 
truths 
That are the common - j-jlaces of the 

schools — 
(A theme for boys, too hackneyed for their 

sires,) 
Yet, with a revelation's liveliness. 
In all their com]ircliensive bearings known 
.'\nd visible to )iliilosophcrs of old. 
Men who, to business of the world un- 
trained. 
Lived in the shade ; and to Harmodius 

known 
And his compeer Aristogiton, known 
To Brutus — that tyrannic power is weak, 
Hath neither gratitude, nor faith, nor love, 
Nor the support of good or evil mm 
To trust in ; that the godhead which is ours 
Can never utterly be ciiarmed or stilled ; 
That notliing hath a natural right to last 
But equity and rea^on ; that all else 
Meets foes irreconcilable, and at best 
Lives only by variety of disease. 

Well might my wishes be intense, my 
thoughts 
Strong and perturlcd, not doubting at that 
time 



TlIE PRELUDE 



57» 



But that the virtue of one paiamount mind 
Would have abashed those impious crests — 

have quelled 
Outrac^eand bloody power, and — in despite 
Of wliat the People lomj liad been and were 
Tlirougii Ignorance and false teaching, sad- 
der proof 
Of immaturity, and in the teeth 
Of desperate opposition from without — 
Have cleared a passage for just government 
And left a solid birthright to the State, 
Redeemed, according to example given 
By ancient lawgivers. 

Tn this frame of mind, 
Dragged by a chain of harsli neccssitv. 
So seemed it, — now I thankfully acluiowl- 

edgc. 

Forced by the gracious providence of 

Heaven — [surcd 

To England 1 returned, else (though as- 

That 1 both was and must be of small 

weight, 
No better than -a landsman on the deck 
Of a ship struggling witli a hideous storm) 
Doubtless, I should have then made com- 
mon cause 
With some who perished ; haj^ly perished 

too, 
A poor mistaken and bewildered offering.— 
Should to the breast of Nature have gone 

back, 
With all my resolutions, all my hopes, 
A F'oet only to myself, to men 
Useless, and even, beloved Friend ! a soul 
To thee unknown ! 

Twice had the trees let fall 
Their leaves, as often Winter had put on 
His hoary crown, since I had seen the surge 
Beat against Albion's shore, smce ear of 

mine 
Had caught the accents of my native speech 
Upon our native country's sacred ground. 
A patriot of the world, how could I glide 
Into communion with her sylvan .shades, 
Erewhile my tuneful haunt ? It i)leased me 

more 
To Abide in the great City, where I found 
The general air still busy with the stir 
Of that first memorable onset made 
By a strong levy of humanity 
Upon the traffickers in Negro blood , 
Effort which, though defeated, had recalled 
To notice old forgotten principles, 
And through the nation spread a novel heat 
Of virtuous feehng. For myself. I own 
That this particular strife had wanted 
power 



To rivet my affections , nor did now 

Its unsuccessful issue much excite 

My sorrow ; for 1 brought with me the 

faith 
That^ if France prospered, good men would 

not long 
Pay fruitless worship to humanitv. 
And this most rotten branch of human 

shame, 
Object, so seemed it. of superfluous jains, 
Would fall together with its parent tree. 
What, then, were my emotions, when in 

arms 
Britain put forth her free-born strength in 

league, 
Oh, pity and shame ! with those confederate 

Poweis. 
Not in my single self alone I found, 
But in the minds of all ingenuous youth. 
Change and subversion from that hour. No 

shock 
Given to my moral nature had I known 
Down to that very moment ; neither lapse 
Nor turn of sentiment that might be named 
A revolution, save at this one time ; 
.'Ml else v/as progress on the self-same path 
On which, with a diversity of pace, 
I had been travelling : this a stride at once 
Into another region. As a light 
And pliant harebell, swinging in the breeze 
On some gray rock—its birth-place— so 

had I 
Wantoned, fast rooted on the ancienl 

tower 
Of my beloved country, wishing not 
A happier fortune than to wither there ; 
Nor was I from that pleasant station torn 
And tossed about in whirlwind. I rejoiced. 
Yea, afterwards — truth most painful to re- 
cord ! — 
Exulted, in the triumph of my soul, 
When Englishmen by thousands were o'er 

thrown, 
Left without glory on the field, or driven. 
Brave hearts I to shameful flight It was a 

gnef, — 
Grief call it not, 'twas anything but that, — 
A conflict of sensations without name. 
Of which he only, who may love the sight 
Of a village steeple, as I ao, can judge. 
When, in the congregation bending all 
To their great Father, prayers were offered 

up, 
Or praises for our country's victories , 
And, 'mid the simple worshippers, ^■ 

chance 
I only, like an uninvited guest 



572 



THE PRELUDE. 



Whom no one owned, sate silent ; shall I 

add, 
Fed on the day of vengeance yet to come. 

Oh ! much have they to account for, who 

could tear. 
By vi(jlcncc, at one decisive rent, 
I'lom the best youth in England their dear 

pride, 
Their joy, in England ; this, too, at a time 
in which worst losses easily mi':jht wean 
The best of names, when patriotic love 
Did of itself in modesty give way, 
Like the Precursor when the Deity 
Is come Whose harbinger he was ; a time 
In which apostasy from ancient faith 
.Seemed but conversion to a higher creed ;* 
Withal a season dangerous and wild, 
A time when sage Experience would have 

snatched 
Flowers out of any hedge-row to comp'sc 
A chaplet in contempt of his gray locks. 

When tlie proud fleet that bears the rtd- 

cross flag 
In that unworthy service was prepared 
To mingle, 1 beheld tlie vessels lie, 
A brood of gallant creatures, on the deep ; 
1 saw them in their rest, a sojourner 
Through a whole month of calm and glassy 

days 
In that delightful island which protects 
Their place of convocation — there 1 heard, 
Each evening, pacing by the still sea-shore, 
A monitory sound that never failed, — - 
The sunset cannon. While the orb went 

down 
In the tranqMillity of nature, came 
That voice, ill requiem ! seldom heard by 

me 
Without a spirit overcast by dark 
Imaginations, sense of woes to come. 
Sorrow for human kind, and pain of heart. 

In France, the men who, for their desper- 
ate ends, 

Had plucked up mercy by the roots, were 
glad 

Of this new enemy. Tyrants, strong be- 
fore 

In wicked pleas, were strong as demons 
now ; 

And thus, on every side beset with foes. 

The goaded land waxed mad , the crimes of 
few 

Spread into madness of the many , blasts 

From hell became sanctified like airs from 
Ixeaven. 



The sternness of the just, the faith of ^ 

those [tiines 

Who doubted not that Providence hat! 
Of vengeful retribution, theirs who throned 
'I'he human Understanding paramount. 
And made of that their God, the hopes of 

men 
Who were content to barter short-lived 

pangs 
For a paradise of ages, the blind rage 
Of insolent tempers, the light vanity 
Of intcrmeddlers, steady purposes 
Of the suspicious, slips of the indiscreet, 
And all the accidents of life were pressed 
Into one service, busy with one work 
The ."Senate stood aghast, her prudence 

ciucnched, 
Her wisdom stifled, and her justice scared. 
Her frenzy only active to extol 
I'ast outrages, and shape the way for new, 
Which no one dared to oppose or mitigate. 

Domestic carnage now filled the whoW 
year 
With feast-days; old men from the chimney- 
nook. 
The maiden from the bosom of her love, 
The mother from the cradle of lier babe. 
The warrior from the field— all perished, 

Friends, enemies, of all parties, ages, ranks, 
Head after head, and never heads enough 
For those that bade them fall. They found 

their joy, 
They made it proudly, eager as a child 
(If like desires of innocent little ones 
May with such heinous appetites be com- 
pared ), 
Pleased in some open field to exercise 
A toy that mimics with revolving wings 
The motion of a wind-mill ; though the air 
Do of itself blow fresh, and make thg 

vanes 
Spin in his eyesight, tJiat contents him not, 
But, with the plaything at arm's length, liQ 

sjts 
His front against the blast, and runs amain, 
That it may whirl the faster. 

Amid the depth 
Of those enormities, even thinking minds 
Forgot, c\t seasons, whence they had their 

bemg ; 
Forgot that such a sound was ever heard 
A.S Liberty upon earth : yet all beneath 
Her innocent authority was wrought, 
Nor could have been, without her blessed 
name. -'* 



THE PRELUDE. 



573 



The illustrious wife of Roland, in the hour 
Of her composure, felt that a';ony, 
And gave it vent in her last words. O 
F"riend ! ' 

It was a lamentable time for man, 
Whether a hope had e'er been his or not ; 
A wcful time for them whose hopes sur- 
vived 
The shock ; most woful for those few who 

still 
Were flattered, and had trust in human 

kind : 
They had the deepest feeling of the grief. 
Meanwliile the Invaders fared as they de- 
served : 
Tiie Herculean Commonwealth had put 

forth her arms, 
And throttled with an infant godhead's 

miglit 
The snakes about her cradle ; that was 

well. 
And as it should be ; yet no cure for them 
Whose souls were sick with pain of what 
would be 
^ereafter brought in charge against man- 
kind, 
./lost melancholy at that time, O Friend ! 
Were my day-thoughts, — my nights were 

miserable ; 
Through months, through years, long after 

tlie last beat 
Of those atrocities, the hour of sleep 
To me came rarely charged with natural 

gifts, 
Such ghastly visions had I of despair 
And tyranny, and implements of death; 
And innocent victims sinking under fear, 
And momentary hope, and worn-out prayer, 
Each in his separate cell, or penned in 

crowds 
For sacrifice, and struggling with fond 

mirth 
And levity in dungeons, where the dust 
Was laid with tears. Then suddenly the 

scene 
Changed, and the unbroken dream entan- 
gled me 
In long orations, which I strove to plead 
Before unjust tribunals, — with a voice 
Laboring, a brain confounded, and a sense. 
Death-like, of treacherous desertion, felt 
In the last place of refuge — my own soul. 

When I began in youth's delightful 
prime 
To yield myself to Nature, when that strong 
And lioly pasLion overcame me first, 



Nor day nor night, evening or mcrn, was 

free 
From its oppression. But, O Power Su- 
preme ! 
Witlior.t whose call this world would ceaso 

to breathe, 
Who from the fountain of Thy grace dost 

fill 
The veins that branch through every frame 

of life, 
Making man what he is, creature divine, 
In single or in social eminence. 
Above the rest raised infinite ascents 
When reason that enables him to be 
Is not sequestered — what a change is here I 
How different ritual for this a'ler-worship, 
What countenance to pron^ot • this second 
love ! [lie 

The first was service paid to things which 
Guarded within the bosom of Thy will. 
Therefore to serve was high beatitude ; 
Tumult was therefore gladness, and the 

fear 
Ennobling, venerable ; sleep secure, 
And waking thoughts more rich than hap- 
piest dreams. 

But as the ancient Prophets, borne aloft 
In vision, yet constrained by natural laws 
With them to take a troubled human heart. 
Wanted not consolations, nor a creed 
Of reconcilement, then when they de 

nounced, 
On towns and cities, wallowing in trie 

abyss 
Of their offences, punishment to come ; 
Or saw, like other men, with bodily eyes. 
Before them, in some desolated place, 
The wrath consummate and the threat ful- 
filled. 
So, with devout humility be it said, 
So did a portion of that spirit fall 
On me uplifted from the vantage-ground 
Of pity and sorrow to a state of being 
That through the time's exceeding fierce 

ness saw 
Glimpses of retribution, terrible, 
And in the order of sublime behests : 
But, even if that were not, amid the awe 
Of unintelligible chastisement, 
Not owly acquiescences of faith 
Survived, but daring sympathies with ]iower, 
Motions not treacherous or profane, dse 

why 
Within the folds of no ungentle breast 
Their dread vibration to this hour pro- 
longed ? 



574 



THE PRELUDE. 



Wild blasts of music thus could find their 

way 
Into the midst of turbulent events; 
Su that worst tempests might be listened 

to. 
Then was the truth received into my heart, 
That, under heaviest sorrow earth can 

bring, 
[f rom the affliction somewhere do not 

grow 
Honor which could not else have been, a 

faith, 
An elevation, and a sanctity, 
If new strength be not given nor old re- 
stored. 
The blame is ours, not Nature's. When a 

taunt 
Was taken up by scoffers '"n their pride. 
Saying, " Behold the harvest that we reap 
Fr.im popular government and equality,'' 
1 clearly saw that neither these nor aught 
Of wild belief engrafted on their names 
By false philosopliy had caused the Vv^oe, 
But a terrible reservoir of guilt 
And ignorance filled up from age to age. 
That could no longer hold its loathsome 

charge, 
But burst and spread in dehige through the 

land. 

And as the desert hath green spots, the 

sea 
Small islands scattered amid stormy waves, 
So that disastrous period did not want 
Bright sprinklings of all human excellence, 
To which the silver wands of saints in 

Heaven 
Might point with rapturous joy. Yet not 

the less, 
For those examples, in no age surpassed, 
Of fortitude and energy and love, 
And human nature faithful to herself 
Under worst trials, was I driven to think 
Of the glad times when first I traversed 

France 
A youthful pilgrim ; above all reviewed 
That eventide, wlien under windov/s bright 
With happy faces and with garlands hung, 
And through a rainbow-arch that spanned 

tiie street. 
Triumphal pomp for liberty confirmed, 
I paced, a dear comi^.-inion at my side, 
The town of Arras, wliei ce with promise 

high 
Issued, on delegation to sustain 
Hiimanitv and right, tlial Rol^espierrc, 
He who thereafter, and iu huw short time! 



Wielded the sceptre ( f the Atheist crew. — 
When the calamity spread far and wide — A 
And this same city, that did then appear ^ 
^I'o outrun the rest in exultation, groaned 
Under the vengeance of her cruel son. 
As Lear reproached the winds — I could al- 
most 
Have quarrelled with that blameless spec- 
tacle 
For lingering yet an image in my mind 
To mock me under such a strange reverse. 

O Friend ! few happier moments have 

been mine 
Than that which told the downfall of this 

Tribe 
So dreaded, so al:)horred. The day deserves 
A separate record. Over tlie smooth, sands 
Of Leven's ample estuary lay 
My journey, and beneath a genial sun, 
With distant prospect among gleams of sky 
And clouds, and intermingling mountain 

tops, 
In one inseparable glory clad, 
Creatures of one ethereal substance met 
In consistory, like a diadem 
Or crown of burning seraphs as they sit 
In the empyrean Underneath that pomp 
Celestial, lay unseen the pastoral vales 
Among whose happy fields 1 had grown up 
From ch.ildhood. On the fulgent spectacle, 
That neither passed away nor changed, I 

gazed 
Enrapt ; but brightest things are wont to 

draw 
Sad opjiosites out of the inner heart, 
As even their pensive influence drew from 

mine. 
How could it otherwise ? for not in vain 
That very morning had I turned aside 
To seek the ground where, 'mid a throng of 

graves, 
An honored teacher of my youth was laid, 
And on the stone were graven by his desire 
Lines from the churchyard elegy of Gray. 
This faithful guide, speaking from his death- 
bed. 
Added no farewell to his parting counsel, 
But said to me, " My head will soon lie 

low ; '' 
And when I saw the turf that covered him, 
After the lapse of full eight years, those 

words, 
With sound of voice and countenance of 

the Man, 
Came back upon me, so that some few 

tears 



THE PRELUDE. 



575 



Fell from me in my own despite. But 

now 
I thought, still traversing that widespread 

plain, 
With tender pleasure of the verses graven 
Upon this tombstone, whispering to my- 
self ; 
He loved the Poets, and, if now alive. 
Would have loved me, as one not destitute 
Of promise, nor belying the kind hope 
Tliat he had formed, when I, at his com- 
mand. 
Began to spin, with toil, my earliest songs. 



As I advanced, all that I saw or felt 
Was gentleness and peace. Upon a small 
And rocky island near, a fragment stood 
(Itself like a sea i-ock),tlie low remains 
(With shells encrusted, dark with briny 

weeds ) 
Of a dilapidated structure, once 
A Romish cliapel, wliere the vested priest 
Said matins at the hour that suited those 
Who crossed the sands with ebb of morning 

tide. 
Not far from that still ruin all the plain 
Lay spotted with a variegated crowd 
Of vehicles and travellers, horse and foot, 
Wading beneath the concluct of their guide 
In loose procession through the shallow 

stream 
Of inland waters ; the great sea meanwhile 
Heaved at safe distance, far retired. I 

paused, 
Longing for skill to paint a scene so bright 
And cheerful, but the foremost of the band 
As he approached, no salutation given 
In the familiar language of the day, 
Cried, " Robespierre is dead 1 " — nor was a 

doubt. 
After strict question, left within my mind 



That he and his supporters all were fallen. 
Great was my transport, deep my grati- 
tude 
To everlasting Justice, by this fiat 
Made manifest, '^" Come now, ye golden 

times," 
Said I fourth-pouring on those open sands 
A hymn of triumph ; " as the morning 

comes 
From out the bosom of the night, come ye 
Thus far our trust is veritied ; behold ! 
They who with clumsy desperation brought 
A river of Blood, and preached that nothing 

else 
Could cleanse the Augean stable, by the 

might 
Of their own helper have been swept away; 
Their madness stands declared and visible ; 
Elsewhere will safety now be sought, and 

eartk 
March firmly towards righteousness and 

peace." — 
Then schemes I framed more calmly, when 

and how 
The madding factions might be tranquillized, 
And how through liardsiiips manifold and 

long 
The glorious renovation would proceed. 
Thus interrupted by imeasy bursts 
Of exultation, I pursued my way 
Along that very shore which I nad skimmed 
In former days, when— spurring from the 

Vale 
Of Nightshade and St. Mary's mouldering 

fane, 
And the stone abbot, after circuit made 
in wantonness of heart, a joyous band 
Of school-boys hastening to their distant 

home 
Along the margin of the moonlight sea — 
We beat with thundering hoofs the level 

sand. 



BOOK ELEVENTH. 



FRANCE 



CONCLUDED. 

From that time forward, Authority m 

France 
Put on a milder face ; Terror had ceased. 
Yet everything was wanting that might give 
Courage to them who looked for good by 

Ught 



I Of ratioral Experience, for the shoots 
And hopeful blossoms of a second spring ; 
Yet, in me, confidence was unimpaired ; 
The Senate's language, and the public acts 
And measures of the Government, though 

both 
Weak, and of heartless omen, had not 

power 
To daunt me ; in the People was my trust: 



576 



THE PRELUDE. 



And in the virtues which mine eyes had 

seen, 
T knew that wound external could not take 
Life from the young Republic ; that new 

foes 
Would only follow, m the path of shame, 
Their brethren, and her triumphs be in the 

end 
Great, universal, irresistible. 
This intuition led me to confound 
One victory with anotlier, higher far, — 
• Triumphs of unambitious peace at home, 
And noiseless fortitude. Beholding still 
Resistance strong as heretofore, I thought 
That what was in degree the same was like- 
wise 
The same in quality, — that, as the worse 
Of the two spirits then at strife remained 
Untired, the better, surely, would preserve 
The heart that first had roused him. Youth 

maintains, 
In all conditions of society, 
Communion more direct and intimate 
With Nature, — hence, ofttimes, with reason 
too — [then. 

Than age or manhood, even. To Nature, 
Power had reverted ; habit, custom, law. 
Had left an interregnum's open space 
For her to move about in, uncontrolled. 
Hence could I see how Babel-like their task, 
Who, by the recent deluge stupefied, 
With their whole souls went culling from 

the day 
Its petty promises, to build a tower 
For their own safety ; laughed with my com- 
peers 
At gravest heads, by enmity to France 
Distempered, till they found, in every blast 
Forced from the street-disturbing newsman's 

horn. 
For her great cause record or prophecy 
Of utter ruin. How might we believe 
That wisdom could, in any shape, come 

near 
Men clinging to delusions so insane ? 
And thus, experience proving that no few 
Of our opinions had been just, we took 
Like credit to ourselves where less was due, 
And thought that other notions were as 

sound. 
Yea, could not but be right, because we saw 
That foohsh men opposed them. 

To a strain 
More animated I might here give way, 
And teU, since juvenile errors are my theme, 
What in those days, through Britain, was 
performed 1 



To turn all judgments out of their right 

course ; 
But this is passion over-near ourselves, 
Reality too close and too intense, 
And intermixed with something, in my 

mind. 
Of scorn and condemnation personal, 
That would profane the sanctity of verse. 
Our Shepherds, this say merely, at that 

time 
Acted, or seemed at least to act, like men 
Thirstmg to make the guardian crook oi 

law 
A tool of murder ; they who ruled the State, 
Though with such awful proof before their 

eyes 
That he, who would sow death, reaps death, 

or worse. 
And can reap nothing better, child-like 

longed 
To imitate, not wise enough to avoid ; 
Or left (by mere timidity betrayed) 
The plain straight road, for one no better 

chosen 
Than if their wish had been to undermine 
Justice, and make an end of Liberty. 

But from these bitter truths I must re^ 

turn 
To my own history, It hath been told 
That I was led to take an eager part 
In arguments of civil polity. 
Abruptly, and indeed before my time : 
I had approached, like other youths, the 

shield 
Of human nature from the golden side, 
And would have fouglit, even to the death, 

to attest 
The quality of the metal which I saw. 
What there is best in individual man, 
Of wise in passion, and sublime in power, 
Benevolent in small societies. 
And great in large ones, I had oft revolved- 
Felt deeply, but not thoroughly understood 
By reason : nay, far from it ; they were 

yet, 
As cause was given me afterwards to learn, 
Not proof against the injuries of the day • 
Lodged only at the sanctuary's door, 
Not safe within its bosom. Thus pre« 

pared, 
And with such general insight into evil, 
And of the bounds which sever it from 

good, [life 

As books and common intercourse with 
Must needs have given— to the inexpert 

enced mind, 



THE PRELUDE. 



571 



When the world travels in a beaten road, 
Guide faithful as is needed — I began 
To meditate with ardor on the rule 
And management of nations ; what it is 
And ought to be ; and strove to learn how 

far' 
Their power or weakness, wealth or pov- 
erty, 
Their happiness or misery, depends 
Upon their laws, and fashion of the State. 

* O pleasant exercise of hope and joy ! 
For mighty were the auxiliars which then 

stood 
Upon cur side, us who were strong in love ! 
Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, 
But to be young was very Heaven ! O 

times, 
In which the meagre, stale, forbidding 

ways 
Of custom, law, and statute, took at once 
The attraction of a country in romance ! 
When Reason seemed the most to assert her 

rights 
When most intent on making of herself 
A prime enchantress — to assist the work, 
Which then was going forward in her 

name ! 
Not favored spots alone, but the whole 

Earth, 
The beauty wore of promise — that which 

sets 
(As at some moments might not be unfelt 
Among the bowers of Paradise itself) 
The budding rose above the rose full blown 
What temper at the prospect did not wake 
To happiness unthought of ? The inert 
Were roused, and lively natures rapt away ! 
They who had fed their childhood upon 

dreams, 
The play-fellows of fancy, who had made 
All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and 

strength 
Their ministers, — who in lordly wise had 

stirred 
Among the grandest objects of the sense, 
And dealt with whatsoever they found 

there 
As if they had within some lurking right 
To wield it ; — they, too, who of gentle mood 
Had watched ali gentle motions, and to 

these 
Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers 

more mild, 
And in the region of their peaceful selves ; — 



♦ See p. igo.—Ed. 



Now was it that 5of/i found, the meek and 

lofty 
Did both find helpers to their hearts' desire, 
And stuff at hand, plastic as they could 

wish, — 
Were called upon to exercise their skill, 
Not in Utopia, — subterranean fields, — 
Or some secreted island, Heaven knows 

where ! 
But in the very world, which is the world 
Of all of us, — the place where, in the end, 
We find our happiness, or not at all ! 

Why should I not confess that Earth was 
then 
To me what an inheritance, new-fallen, 
Seems, when the first time visited, to one 
Who tliither comes to find in it his home ! 
Pie walks about and looks upon the spot 
With cordial transport, moulds it and re- 
moulds. 
And is half pleased with things that are 

amiss, 
'Twill be such joy to see them disappear. 

An active partisan, I thus convoked 
From every object pleasant circumstance 
To suit my ends ; I moved among mankind 
With genial feelings still predominant ; 
When erring, erring on the better part, 
And in the kinder spirit ; placable, 
Indulgent, as not uninformed that men 
See as they have been taught — Antiquity 
Gives rights to error ; and aware, no less, 
That throwing off oppression must be work 
As well of License as of Liberty ; 
And above all — for this was more than all^ 
Not caring if the wind did now and then 
Blow keen upon an eminence that gave 
Prospect so large into futurity ; 
In brief, a child of Nature, as at first, 
Diffusing only those affections wider 
That from the cradle had grown up with 

me. 
And losing, in no other way than light 
Is lost in light, the weak in the more strong. 

In the main outline, such it might be 

said 
Was my condition, till with open war 
Britain opposed the liberties of France. 
This threw me first out of the pale of love.; 
Soured and corrupted, upwards to the 

source, 
My sentiments ; was not, as hitherto, 
A swallowing up of lesser things in great, 
But change of them into their contraries; 



57S 



THE PRELUDE. 



And thus a way was opened for mistakes 
And false conclusions, in degree as gross, 
In kind more dangerous. What had been a 

pride 
Was how a shame ; \ my likings and my 

loves 
Ran in new channels, leaving old ones dry : 
And hence a blow that, in maturer age, 
Would but have touched the judgment, 

struck more deep 
Into sensations near the heart : meantime, 
As from the first, wild theories were afloat, 
To whose pretensions, sedulously urged, 
1 had but lent a careless ear, assured 
That time was ready to set all things right. 
And that the multitude,^ so long oppressed, 
Would be oppressed no more. 

But when events 
Brought less encouragement, and unto 

these 
The immediate proof of principles no more 
Could be entrusted, while the events them- 
selves, 
Worn out in greatness, stripped of novelty, 
Less occupied the mind, and sentiments 
Could through my understanding's natural 

growth [tained 

No longer keep their ground, by faith main- 
Of inward consciousness, and hope that laid 
Her hand upon her object — evidence 
Safer, of universal application, such 
As could not be impeached, was sought 

elsewhere. 

But now, become oppressors in their turn, 
Frenchmen had changed a war of self- 
defence 
For one of conquest, losing sight of all 
Which they had struggled for : up mounted 

now. 
Openly in the eye of earth and heaven, 
The scale of liberty, I read her doom. 
With anger vexed, with disappointment 

sore, 
But not dismayed, nor taking to the shame 
Of a false prophet. While resentment rose 
Striving to hide, what naught could heal 

the wounds 
Of mortified presumption, I adhered 
More firmiy to old tenets, and, to prove 
Their temper, strained them more ; and 

thus, in heat 
Of contest, did opinions every day 
Grow into consequence, till round my mind 
They clung, as if they were its life, nay 

more. 
The very being of the immortal soul. 



This was the time, when, dl things teud> 

ing fast 
To depravation, speculative schemes — 
That promised to abstract the hopes of Man 
Out of his feelings, to be fixed thenceforth 
Forever in a purer element — 
Found ready welcome. Tempting region 

that 
For zeal to enter and refresh herself, 
Where passions had the privilege to work, 
And never hear the sound of their own 

names. 
But, speaking more in charity, the dream 
Flattered the young, pleased with extremes, 

nor least 
With that which makes our Reason's naked 

self 
The object of its fervor. What delight ! 
How glorious I in self-knowledge and self- 
rule, [world, 
To look through all the frailties of the 
And, with a resolute mastery shaking off 
Infirmities of nature, time, and place. 
Build social upon personal Liberty, 
Which, to the blind restraints of general 

laws 
Superior, magisterially adopts 
One guide, the light of circumstances, 

flashed 
Upon an independent intellect. 
Thus expectation rose again ; thus hope. 
From her first ground expelled, grew proud 

once more. 
Oft, as my thoughts were turned to human 

kind, 
I scorned mdifference ; but, inflamed with 

thirst 
Of a secure intelligence, and sick 
Of other longing, I pursued what seemed 
A more exalted nature ; wished that Man 
Should start out of his earthly, worm-like 

state, 
And spread abroad the wings of Liberty, 
Lord of himself, in undisturbed delight — 
A noble aspiration ! yet 1 feel 
(Sustained by worthier as by wiser thouglits) 
The aspiration, nor sliall ever cease 
To feel it ; — but return we to our course. 

Enough, 'tis true — could such a plea ex- 
cuse 

Those aberrations — had the clamorous 
friends 

Of ancient Institutions said and done 

To bring disgrace upon their very names ; 

Disgrace, of which, custom and writteo 
law. 



THE PRELUDE. 



579 



And sundry moral sentiments as props 
Or emanations of those institutes, 
Too justly bore a part. A veil had been 
Uplifted ; why deceive ourselves? in sooth, 
' Twas even so ; and sorrow for the man 
Who either had not eyes wherewith to see, 
Or, seeing, had forgotten ! A strong shock 
Was given to old opinions ; all men's minds 
Had felt its power, and mine was both let 

loose, 
Let loose and goaded. After what had 

been 
Already said of patriotic love, 
Suffice it here to add, that, somewhat stern 
In temperament, withal a happy man. 
And therefore bold to look on painful things. 
Free likewise of the world, and thence more 

bold, 
I summoned my best skill, and toiled, in- 
tent 
To anatomize the frame of social life, 
Yea, t'le whole body of society 
Searched to its heart. Share with me, 

Friend ! the wish 
That some dramatic tale, endued with 

shapes 
Livelier, and flinging out less guarded words 
Tlian suit the work we fashion, might set 

forth 
W^hat then I learned, or think I learned, of 

truth. 
And tlie errors into which I fell, beb-ayed 
By present objects, and by reasonings false 
From their beginnings, inasmucli as drawn 
Out of a heart tluit had been turned aside 
From Nature's way by outward accidents. 
And which was thus confounded, more and 

more 
Misguided, and misguiding. So I fared. 
Dragging all precepts, judgments, maxims, 

creeds, 
Like culprits to the bar ; calling the mind, 
Suspiciously, to establish in plain day 
Her titles and her honors ; now believing, 
Now disbelieving ; endlessly perplexed 
With impulse, motive, right and wrong, the 

ground 
Of obligation, what the rule and whence 
The sanction ; till, demanding ioxm-^X proof ^ 
And seeking it in every thing, [ lost 
All feeling of conviction, and, in fine, 
Sick, wearied out with contrarieties. 
Yielded up moral questions in despair. 

This was the crisis of that strong disease. 
This the soul's last and lowest ebb; 1 
drooped. 



Deeming our blessed reason of least use 
Where wanted most : " The lordly at 

tributes 
Of will and choice," 1 bitterlj^ exclaimed, 
" What are they but a mockery of a Being 
Who hath in no concerns of his a test 
Of good and evil ; knows not what to fear 
Or liope for, what to covet or to shun : 
And who, if those could be discerned, would 

yet 
Be little profited, would see, and ask 
Where is the obligation to enforce } 
And, to acknowledged law rebellious, still. 
As selfish passion urged, would act amiss ; 
The dupe of folly, or the slave of crime." 

Depressed, bewildered thus, I did not walk, 
With scoffers, seeking light and gay re- 
venge 
From indiscriminate laughter, nor sate down 
In reconcilement with an utter waste 
Of intellect ; such sloth I could not brook, 
(Too well I loved, in that my spring of 

life, 
Pains-taking thoughts, and truth, their clear 

reward) 
But turned to abstract science, and there 

sought 
Work for the reasoning faculty enthroned 
Where the disturbances of space and timc^ 
Whether in matters various, properties 
Inherent, or from human will and pnwcr 
Derived — find no admission. Then it was — 
Thanks to the bounteous Giver of all 

good I — 
That the beloved Sister in whose sight 
Those days were passed, now speaking in a 

voice 
Of sudden admonition — like a brook 
That did but cross a lonely road, and now 
Is seen, heard, felt, and caught at every 

turn. 
Companion never lost through many a 

league — 
Maintained for me a saving intercourse 
With my true self ; for, though bedimmed 

and changed 
Much, as it seemed, I was no further 

changed 
Than as a clouded and a waning moon : 
She whispered still that brightness would 

return, 
She, in the midst of all, preserved me still 
A Poet, made me seek beneath that name, 
And that alone, my office upon earth ; 
And, lastly, as liereafter will be shown. 
If willing audience fail not, Nature's self, 



5«o 



THE PRELUDE. 



By all varieties of human love 

Assisted, led me back through opening day 

To tliose sweet counsels between head and 

heart 
Whence grew that genuine knowledge, 

fraught with peace, 
Which, through the later sinkings of this 

cause. 
Hath still upheld me, and upholds me now 
In the catastrophe (for so they dream, 
And nothing less), when, finally to close 
And seal up all the gains of France, a Pope 
Is summoned in, to crown an Emperor — 
This last opprobrium, when we see a peo- 
ple, [Heaven 
That once looked up in faith, as if to 
For manna, take a lesson from the dog 
Returning to his vomit ; when the sun 
That rose in splendor, was alive, and moved 
In exultation with a living pomp 
Of clouds — his glrry's natural retinue — 
Hath dropped all functions by the gods be- 
stowed. 
And, turned into a gewgaw, a machine. 
Sets like an Opera phantom. 

Thus, O Friend ! 
Through times of honor and through times 

of shame 
Descending, have I faithfully retraced 
The perturbations of a youthful mind 
Under a long-lived storm of great events — 
A story destined for thy ear, wlio now. 
Among the fallen of nations, dost abide 
Where Etna, over hill and valley, casts 
His shadow stretching towards Syracuse, 
The city of Timoleon I Righteous Heaven ! 
How are the mighty prostrated ! They 

first, 
They first of all that breathe, sheuld have 

awaked 
When the great voice was heard from out 

the tombs 
Of ancient heroes. If I suffered grief 
For ill-requited France, by many deemed 
A trifler only in her proudest day ; 
Have been distressed to think of what she 

once 
Promised, now is ; a far more sober cause 
Thine eyes must see of sorrow in a land. 
To the reanimating influence lost 
Of memory, to virtue lost and hope. 
Though with the wreck of loftier years be- 
strewn 

But indignation works where hope is not, 
And thou, O Friend 1 wilt be refreshed. 
There is 



One great society alone on earth : 
The noble Living and the noble Dead. 

Thine be such converse strong and sana- 
tive, 
A ladder for thy spirit to reascend 
To health and joy and pure contentedness; 
To me the grief confined, that thou art gon8 
From this last spot of earth, where Free- 
dom now 
Stands single in her only sanctuary ; 
A lonely wanderer art gone, by pain 
Compelled and sickness, at this latter day, 
This sorrowful reverse for all mankind. 
I feel for thee, must utter what 1 feel : 
The sympathies, erewhile in part discharged, 
Gather afresh, and will have vent again : 
My own delights do scarcely seem to me 
My own delights ; the lordly Alps them- 
selves. 
Those rosy peaks, from which the Morning 

looks 
Abroad on many nations, are no more 
For me that image of pure gladsomeness 
Which they were wont to be. Through 

kindred scenes, 
For purpose, at a time, how different 1 
Thou tak'st thy way, carrymg the heart and 

soul 
That Nature gives to Poets, now by thought 
Matured, and in the summer of their 

strength. 
Oh ! wrap him in your shades, ye giant 

woods, 
On Etna's side; and thou, O flowery field 
Of Enna ! is there not some nook of thine, 
From the first play-time of the infant world 
Kept sacred to restorative delight. 
When from afar invoked by anxious love ? 

Child of the mountains, among shepherds 

reared. 
Ere yet familiar with the classic page, 
I learnt to dream of Sicily ; and lo. 
The gloom, that, but a moment past, was 

deepened 
At thy command, at her command gives 

way ; 
k pleasant promise, wafted from her shores, 
Comes o'er my heart : in fancy I behold 
Her seas yet smiling, her gnce happy vales; 
Nor can my tongue give utterance to a xvastuf 
Of note belonging to that honored isle, 
Philosopher or Bard, Empedocles, 
Or Archimedes, pure abstracted soul ! 
That doth not yield a solace to my grief; 



THE PRELUDE. 



581 



And, O Theocritus,* so far have some 
Prevailed among the powers of heaven and 

earth, 
By their endowments, good or great, that 

they 
Have had, as thou reportest, miracles 
Wrought for them in old time : yea, not 

unmoved, 
When thinlving on my own beloved friend, 
I hear thee tell iiow bees with honey fed 
Divine Comates, by his impious lord 
Within a chest imprisoned ; how they came 
Laden from blooming grove or flowery 

field. 
And fed him there, alive, month after month, 
Because the goatherd, blessed man ! had lips 
Wet with the Muses' nectar. 

Thus I soothe 
The pensive moments by this calm fireside, 
And find a thousand bounteous images 
To cheer the thoughts of those I love, and 

mine. 

* Theocrit. Idyll, vii- 78. 



Our prayers have been accepted ; thou wilt 

stand 
On Etna's summit, above earth and sea, 
Triumphant, winning from the invaded 

heavens 
Thoughts without bound, magnificent de« 

signs, 
Worthy of poets who attuned their harps 
In wood or echoing cave, for discipline 
Of heroes ; or, in reverence to the gods, 
'Mid temples, served by sapient priests, and 

choirs 
Of virgins crowned with roses. Not in vain 
Those temples, where they in their ruins 

yet 
Survive for inspiration, shall attract 
Thy solitary steps : and on the brink 
Thou wilt recline of pastoral Arethuse ; 
Or, if that fountam be in truth no more, 
Then, near some other spring — which by the 

name 
Thou gratulatest, willingly deceived — 
I see thee linger a glad votary. 
And not a captive pming for his home. 



BOOK TWELFTH. 



IMAGINATION AND TASTE, HOW 
IMPAIRED AND RESTORED. 

Long time have human ignorance and guilt 
Detained ns, on what spectacles of woe 
Compelled to look, and inwardly impress 
With sorrow, disappointment, vexing 

thoughts, 
Confusion of the judgment, zeal decayed, 
And, lastly, utter loss of hope itself 
And things to hope for! Not with these 

began [end. — 

Our song, and not with these our song must 
Te motions of delight, that h^unt the sides 
Of the green hills ; ye breezes and soft airs. 
Whose subtle intercourse with breathing 

flowers, 
Feelingly watched, might teach Man's 

haughty race 
How without injury to take, to give 
Without offence ; ye who, as if to show 
The wondrous influence of power gently 

used. 
Bend the complying heads of lordly pines. 
And, with a touch, shift the stupendous 

clouds 
Through the whole compass of the sky ; ye 

brooks. 



Muttering along the stones, a busy noise 

By day, a quiet sound in silent night ; 

Ye waves, that out of the great deep steal 

forth 
In a calm hour to kiss the pebbly shore, 
Not mute, and then retire, fearing no storm ; 
And you, ye groves, whose ministry it is 
To interpose the covert of your shades. 
Even as a sleep, between the heart of man 
And outward troubles, between man himself. 
Not seldom, and his own uneasy heart : 
Oh, th^it I had a music and a voice 
Harmonious as your own, that I might tell 
What ye have done for me, ;■ The morning 

shhies. 
Nor hecdeth Man's perverseness ; Spring 

returns,— 
I saw the Spring return, and could rejoice. 
In common with the children of her love. 
Piping on boughs, or sporting on fresh 

fields, 
Or boldly seeking pleasure nearer heaven 
On wings that navigate cerulean skies. 
So neither were complacency, nor peace, 
Nor tender yearnings, wanting for my good 
Through these distracted times ; in Natur« 

still 
Glorying, I found a counterpoise in her. 



582 



THE PRELUDE. 



1 



Which when the spirit of evil reached its 

height 
Maintained for me a secret happiness. 



This narrative, my Friend ! hath chiefly 

told 
Of intellectual power, fostering love, 
Dispensing truth, and, over men and things. 
Where reason yet might liesitate, diffusmg 
Prophetic sympathies of genial faith : 
So was I favored — such my happy lot — 
Until that natural graciousness of mind 
Gave way to overpressure from the times 
And their disastrous issues. What availed. 
When spells forbade the voyager to land, 
That fragrant notice of a pleasant shore 
Wafted, at intervals, from many a bower 
Of blissful gratitude and fearless love ? 
Dare I avow that wish was mine to see, 
And hope that future times would surely 

see, 
Tht man to come, parted, as by a gulph, 
From him who had been ; that 1 could no 

more 
Trust the elevation which had made me one 
With the great family that still survives 
To illuminate the abyss of ages past. 
Sage warrior, patriot, hero ; for it seemed 
That their best virtues were not free from 

taint 
Of something false and weak, that could not 

stand 
The open eye of Reason. Then I said, 
" Go to tlie Poets, they will speak to thee 
More perfectly of purer creatures ; — yet 
If reason be nobility in man, 
Can aught be more ignoble than the man 
Whom they delight in, blinded as he is 
Ry prejudice, the miserable slave 
Of low ambition or distempered love .^ " 

In such strange passion, if I may once 

more 
Review the past, I warred against myself — 
A bigot to a new idolatry — 
Like a cowled monk who hath forsworn the 

world, 
Zealously labored to cut off my heart 
From all the sources of her former strength ; 
And as, by simple waving of a wand, 
The wizard instantaneously dissolves 
Palace or grove, even so could I unsoul 
As readily by syllogistic words 
Those mysteries of being which have made, 
And shall continue evermore to make, 
Of the whole huDian race one brotherhood. 



What wonder, then, if, to a mind so far 

Perverted, even the visible Universe 
Fell under the dominion of a taste 
Less spiritual, with microscopic view 
Was scanned, as I had scanned the moraJ 
., world .'' 

O Soul of Nature ! excellent and fair ! 
That didst rejoice with me, with whom I, 

too, [winds 

Rejoiced through early youth, before the 
And roaring waters, and in lights and shades 
That marched and countermarched about 

the hills 
In glorious apparition, Powers on whom 
I daily waited, now all eye and now 
All ear ; but never long without the heart 
Employed, and man's unfolding intellect: 

Soul of Nature ! that, by laws divine 
Sustained and governed, still dost overflow 
With an impassioned life, what feeble ones 
Walk on this earth ! how feeble ha,ve 1 boen 
When thou wert in thy strength !) Nor this 

through stroke 
Of human suffering, such as justifies 
Remissness and inaptitude of mind, 
But through presumption ; even in pleasure 

pleased 
Unworthily, disliking here, and there 
Liking ; by rules of mimic art transferred 
To things above all art ; but more, — for 

this, 
Although a strong infection of the age, 
Was never much my habit — giving way 
To a comparison of scene with scene. 
Bent overmuch on superficial things. 
Pampering myself with meagre novelties 
Cf color and proportion ; to the moods 
Of time and season, to the moral power. 
The affections and the spirit of the place, 
Insensible. Nor only did the love 
Of sitting thus in judgment interrupt 
My deeper feelings, ))ut another cause, 
More subtle and less easily explained, 
That almost seems inherent in the creature, 
A twofold frame of body and of mind. 

1 speak in recollection of a time 

When the bodily eye, in every stage of life 
The most despotic of our senses, gained 
Such strength in me as often held my mind 
In absolute dominion. Gladly here. 
Entering upon abstruser argument. 
Could I endeavor to unfold the means 
Which Nature studiously employs to thwart 
This tyranny, summons all the senses each 
To counteract the other, and themselves, 
And makes them all, and the objects witk 
which all 



THE PRELUDE. 



583 



Are conversant, subservient in '.heir turn 
To the great ends of Liberty and Power. 
But leave we this; enough that my de- 
lights 
(Such as they were) were sought insatiably. 
Vivid the transport, vivid though not pro- 
found ; 
I roamed from hill to hill, from rock to 

rock, 
Still craving combinations of new forms, 
New pleasure, wider empire for the sight, 
Proud of her own endowments, and rejoiced 
To lay the inner faculties asleep. 
Amid the turns and counterturns, the strife 
And various trials of our complex being. 
As we grow up, such thraldom of that sense 
Seems hard to shun. And yet 1 knew a 
maid, [bonds ; 

A young enthusiast, who escaped these 
Her eye was not the mistress of her heart ; 
Far less did rules prescribed by passive 

taste. 
Or barren intermeddling subtleties, 
Perple.x her mind ; but, wise as women are 
When genial circumstance hath favored 

them, 
She welcomed what was given, and craved 

no more ; 
Whate'er the scene presented to her view 
That was the best, to that she was attuned 
By her benign simplicity of life, 
And through a perfect happiness of soul, 
Whose variegated feelings were in this 
Sisters, that they were each some new 

' delight. 
Birds in the bower, and lambs in the green 

field. 
Could they have known her, would have 

loved ; methought 
Her very presence such a sweetness breathed. 
That flowers, and trees, and even the silent 

hills, 
And everything she looked on, should have 

had 
An intimation how she bore herself 
Towards them and to all creatures. God 

delights 
III such a being ; for, her common thoughts 
Are piety, her life is gratitude. ; 

Even like this maid, before T was called 
forth 
From the retirement of my native hills, 
I loved whate'er I saw : nor lighily loved. 
But most intensely ; never dreamt of aught 
More grand, more fair, more exquisitely 
icamed 



Than those few nooks to which my happy 

feet 
Were limited. I had not at that time 
Lived long enough, nor in the least survived 
The first diviner influence of this world, 
As it appears to unaccustomed eyes. 
Worshipping them among the depth of 

things, 
As piety ordained ; could I submit 
To measured admiration, or to aught 
That should preclude humility and love ? 
I felt, observed, and pondered ; did not 

judge, 
Yea, never thought of judging ; with the 

gift 
Of all this glory filled and satisfied. 
And afterwards, when through the gorgeous 

Alps 
Roaming, I carried with me the same heart : 
In truth, the degradation — howsoe'er 
Induced, effect, in whatsoe'er degree, 
Of custom that prepares a partial scale 
In which the little oft outweighs the great ; 
Or any otlier cause that hath been named ; 
Or lastly, aggravated by the times 
And their impassioned sounds, which well 

might make 
The milder minstrelsies of rural scenes 
Inaudible — was transient ; I had known 
Too forcibly, too early in my life, 
Visitings of imaginative power 
For this to last : I shook the habit off 
Entirely and forever, and again 
In Nature's presence stood, as now I stand, 
A sensitive being, a creative soul. 

There are in our existence spots of time, 
That with distinct pre-eminence retain 
A renovating virtue, whence, depressed 
By false opinion and contentious thought. 
Or auglit of heavier or more deadly weight, 
In trivial occupations, and the round 
Of ordinary intercourse, our minds 
Are nourished and invisibly repaired ; 
A virtue, by which pleasure is enhanced, 
That penetrates, enables us to mount, 
When high, more high, and lifts us up when 

fallen. 
This efficacious spirit chiefly lurks 
.'Among those passages of life that give 
Profoundest knowledge to what point, and 

how. 
The mind is lord and master— outward sense 
The obedient servant of her will.^ Such 

moments - 

Are scattered everywhere, taking their date 
From our first childhood. I remember well| 



5^4 



THE PRELUDE. 



That once -vhile yet my inexperienced hand 
Could scarcely hold a bridle, with proud 

hopes 
1 mounted, and we journeyed towards the 

hills : 
An ancient servant of my fatlier's house 
Was with me, my encourager and guide : 
We had not travelled long, ere some mis- 
chance 
Disjoined me from my comrade; and, 

through fear 
Dismounting, down the rough and stony 

moor 
I led my horse, and, stumbling on, at length 
Came to a bottom, where in former times 
A murderer had been hung in iron chains. 
The gibbet-mast had mouldered down, the 

bones 
And iron case were gone ; but on the turf, 
Hard by, soon after that fell deed was 

wrought. 
Some unknown hand had carved the mur- 
derer's name. 
The monumental letters were inscribed 
In times long past ; but still, from year to 

year. 
By superstition of the neighborhood. 
The grass is cleared away, and to this hour 
Tile characters are fresh and visible; 
A casual glance liad shown them, and I fled, 
Faltermg and faint, and ignorant of the 

road : 
Then, reascending the bare common, saw 
A naked pool that lay beneath the hills. 
The beacon on the summit, and, more near 
A girl, wlio bore a pitcher on her head. 
And seemed with difficult steps to force her 

way 
Against the blowing wind. It was, in truth, 
An ordinary sight ; but I should need 
Colors and words that are unknown to man, 
To paint the visionary dreariness 
Which, while I looked all round for my lost 

guide. 
Invested moorland waste, and naked pool 
The beacon crowning the lone eminence. 
The female and her garments vexed and 

tossed 
By the strong wind. When, in the blessed 

hours 
Df early love, the loved one at my side, 
{ roamed, in daily presence of this scene, 
Upon the naked pool and dreary crags, 
And on the melancholy beacon, fell 
A spirit of pleasure and youth's golden 

gleam ; 
And think ye not with radiance more sublime 



For these remembrances, and for the powci 
They had left behind } So feeling comes iv 

aid 
Of feeling, and diversity of strength 
Attends us, if but once we have been strong 
Oh ! mystery of man, from what rf depth 
Proceed thy honors. I am lost, but see 
In simple childhood something of the base 
On which thy greatness stands ; but this I 

feel. 
That from thyself it comes, that thou must 

give, 
Else never canst receive. The days gone by 
Return upon me almost from the dawn 
Of life : the hiding-places of man's power 
Open ; I would approach them, but they 

close. 
I see by glimpses now ; when age comes on, 
May scarcely see at all ; and I would give, 
While yet we may, as far as words can give, 
Substance and life to wliat 1 feel, enshrining, 
Such is my hope, the spirit of the Past 
For future restoration.— Yet another 
Of these memorials : — 

COne Christmas-time, 
On the glad eve of its dear holidays. 
Feverish, and tired, and restless, I went 

forth 
Into the fields, impatient for the sight 
Of those led palfreys that should bear us 

home ; 
My brothers and myself. There rose a crag, 
That, from the meeting-point of two high- 
ways 
Ascending, overlooked them both, far 

stretched ; 
Thither, uncertain on which road to fix 
My expectation, thither I repaired. 
Scout-like, and gained the summit ; 'twas a 

day 
Tempestuous, dark, and wild, and om the 

grass 
I sate half- sheltered by a naked wall ; 
Upon my right hand couched a single sheep. 
Upon my left a blasted hawthorn stood; 
With those companions at my side, I watched, 
Straining my eyes intensely, as the mist 
Gave intermitting prospect of the copse 
And plain beneath. Ere we to school r& 

turned, — 
That dreary time, — ere we had been ten 

days 
Sojourners in my father's house, he died, 
And I and my three brothers, orphans then. 
Followed his body to the grave. The event. 
With all the sorrow that it brought, appeared 
A chastisement ; and when I called to mind 



THE PRELUDE. 



585 



That day so lately past, when from the crag 
I luoked in such anxiety of liope ; 
With trite reflections of morality, 
Yet in tiie deepest passion, I bowed low 
To God, Who thus corrected my desires; 
And, afterwards, the wind and sleety rain, 
And all the business of the elements. 
The single sheep, and the one blasted tree, 
And the bleak music from that old stone 

wall, 
Tlie noise of wood and water, and the mist 
That on the line of each of those two roads 
Advanced in such indisputable shapes ; 



All these were kindred spectacles and 
sounds [drink, 

To which I oft repaired, and thence would 
As at a fountain ; and on winter nights, 
Down to this very time, when storm and 

rain 
Beat on my roof, or, haply, at noon-day, 
While in a grove 1 walk, whose lofty trees, 
Laden with summer's thickest foliage, rock 
In a strong wind, some working of the spirit, 
Some inward agitations thence are brouglit, 
Wliate'cr their office, whether to beguile 
Thouglits over busy in the course they took, 
Or animate an hour of vacant ease. > 



BOOK THIRTEENTH. 



IMAGINATION AND TASTE,%OW 
IMPAIRED AND RESTORED. 

CONCLUDED. 

F.BjaM. Nature doth emotion come, and 

uioods 
Of calmness equally are Nature's gift: 
This is her glory ; these two attributes 
Are sister horns that constitute her strength. 
Hence Genius, born to thrive by interchange 
Of peace and excitation, finds in her 
His best and purest friend; from her re- 
ceives 
That energy by which he seeks the truth. 
From her that iiappy stillness of the mind 
Which fits him to receive it when unsought. 

Such benefit tlie humblest intellects 
Partake of, each in their degree ; 'tis mine 
To speak, what I myself have known and 

felt; 
Smooth task ! for words find easy way, in- 
spired 
By gratitude, and confidence in truth. 
Long time in search of knovvledge did I 

range 
The fic;ld of human life, in heart and mind 
Benighted ; but, the dawn beginning now 
To reappear, 'twas proved tliat not in vam 
I had been taught to reverence a Power 
That is the visible quality and shape 
And image of right reason ; that matures 
Her processes by steadfast laws ; gives birth 
To no impatient or fallacious hopes, 
No heat of passion or excessive zeal. 
No vain conceits ; provokes to no quick turns 
Of self-applauding intellect ; but trains 
To meekness, and exalts by humble faith} 



Holds up before the mind intoxicate 
With present objects, and the busy dance 
Of thihgs that pass away, a temperate shovT 
Of objects that endure ; and by this course 
Disposes her, when over-fondly set 
On throwing off incumbrances, to seek 
In man, and in the frame of social life, 
Whate'er there is desirable and good 
Of kindred permanence, unchanged in form 
And function, or, through strict vicissitude 
Of life and death, revolving. Above all 
Were re-established now those watchful 

thoughts 
Which, seeing little worthy or sublime 
In what the Historian's pen so much delights 
To blazon — power and energy detached 
From moral purpose— early tutored me 
To look with feelings of fraternal love 
Upon the unassuming things that hold 
A silent station in this beauteous world. 

Thus moderated, thus composed, I found 
Once more in Man an object of delight, 
Of pure imagination, and of love ; 
And, as the horizon of my mind enlarged, 
Again I took the intellectual eye 
For mv instructor, studious more to see 
Gr«at truths, than touch and handle little 

ones. 
Knowledge was given accordingly ; my tru^ t 
Became more firm in feelifigs that had stood 
The test of such a trial ; clearer far 
My sense of excellence— of right and wrong : 
The promise of the present time retired 
Into its true proportion ; sanguine scheme^ 
Ambitious projects, pleased me less ; I 

sought 



586 



THE PRELUDE. 



For present good in life's familiar face, 
And built thereon my hopes of good to come. 



With settling judgments now of what 
would last 
And what would disappear ; prepared to find 
Presumption, folly, madness, in the men 
Who thrust themselves upon the passive 

world 
As Uulers of the world ; to see in these. 
Even when the public welfare is their aim, 
I^lans without thought, or built on theories 
Vague and unsound ; and having brought 

the books 
Of modern statists to their proper test, 
Life, human life ; with all its sacred claims 
Of sex and age, and heaven-descended rights, 
Mortal, of those beyond the reach of death ; 
And having thus discerned how dire a thing 
Is worshipped in that idol proudly named 
'• The Wealth of Nations," where alone 

that wealth 
Is lodged, and how increased ; and having 

gained 
A more judicious knowledge of the worth 
And dignity of individual man. 
No composition of the brain, but man 
Of whom we read, the man whom we behold 
With our own eyes — I could not but in- 
quire — 
Not with less interest than heretofore, 
But greater, though in spirit more subdued — 
Why is this glorious creature to be found 
One only in ten thousand? What one is, 
Why may not millions be ? What bars are 

thrown 
By Nature in the way of such a hope ? 
Our animal appetites and daily wants. 
Are these obstructions insurmountable ? 
If not, then others vanish into air. 
" Inspect the basis of the social pile : 
Inquire," said I, "how much of mental 

pow er 
And genuine virtue they possess who live 
By bodily toil, labor exceeding far 
Their due proportion, under all the weight 
Of that injustice which upon ourselves 
Ourselves entail." Such estimate to frame 
I chiefly looked (what need to look be- 
yond ?) 
Among the natural abodes of men, 
Fields with their rural works ; recalled to 

mind 
My earliest notices ; with these compared 
The observations made in later youth, 
And to that day continued,— For the time 



Had never been when throes of mighty 

Nations 
And the world's tumult unto me could yield, 
How far soe'er transported and possessed. 
Full measure of content ; but still J 

craved 
An intermingling of distinct regards 
And truths of individual sympathy 
Nearer ourselves. Such often might bt 

gleaned 
From the great City, else it must liave 

proved 
To me a heart-depressing wilderness ; 
But much was wanting : therefore did I 

turn 
To you, ye pathways, and ye lonely roads ; 
Sought you enriched with eveiything I 

prized. 
With humane kindnesses and simple joys. 

Oh ! next to one dear state of bliss, vouch- 
safed 
Alas ! to few in this untoward world, 
The bliss of walking daily in life's prime 
Through field or forest with the maid we 

love, 
While yet our hearts arc young, while yet 

we breathe 
Nothing but happiness, in some lone noo!". 
Deep vale, or any where, the home of both, 
From which it would be misery to stir : 
Oh I next to such enjoyment of our youth, 
In my esteem, next to such dear delight. 
Was that of wandering on from day to day 
Where I could meditate in peace, and cull 
Knowledge that step by step might lead nie 

on 
To wisdom ; or, as lightsome as a bird 
Wafted upon the wind from distant lands. 
Sing notes of greeting to strange fields or 

groves, 
Which lacked not voice to welcome me in 

turn : 
And, when that pleasant toil had ceased to 

please, 
Converse with men, where if we meet a 

face 
We almost meet a friend, on naked heaths 
With long long ways before, by cottagt 

bencli, 
Or well-spring where the weary traveller 

rests. 

Who doth not love to follow with his 
eye 
The windings of a public way ^ the sight, 
Familiar object as it is, hath wrought 



THE PRELUDE. 



5»7 



On my imagination since the morn 
Of childhood, when a disappearing line 
One daily present to my eyes, that crossed 
The naked summit of a far-off hill 
Beyond the limits that my feet had trod, 
Was like an invitation into space 
Boundless, or guide into eternity. 
Yes, something of the grandeur which in- 
vests 
The mariner who sails the roaring sea 
Through storm and darkness, early in my 
mind [earth ; 

Surrounded, too, the wanderers of the 
Grandeur as much, and loveliness far more. 
Awed have I been by strolling Bedlamites; 
From many other uncouth vagrants (passed 
In fear) have walked with quicker step ; but 

why 
Take note of this ? When I began to en- 
quire, [speak 
To watch and question those I met, and 
Without reserve to them, the lonely roads 
Were open schools m which I daily read 
With most delight the passions of man- 
kind, 
Whether by words, looks, sighs, or tears, re- 
vealed ; 
There saw into the depth of human souls, 
Souls that appear to have no depth at all 
To careless eyes. And — now convinced at 

heart 
How little those formalities, to which 
With overweening trust alone we give 
The name of Education, have to do 
With real feeling and just sense ; how vain 
A correspondence with the talking world 
Proves to the most ; and called to make 

good search 
If man's estate, by doom of Nature yoked 
With toil, be therefore yoked with igno- 
rance ; 
If virtue be indeed so hard to rear, 
And intellectual strength so rare a boon — 
I prized such walks still more, for there I 
found [peace 

Hope to my hope, and to my pleasure 
And steadiness, and healing and repose 
To every angry passion. There I heard. 
From mouths of men obscure and lowly, 

truths 
Replete with honor ; sounds in unison 
With loftiest promises of good and fair. 

There are who think that strong affection, 
love 
Known by whatever name, is falsely 
deemed 



A gift, to use a term which they would use, 
Of vulgar nature ; that its growth requires 
Retirement, leisure, language purified 
By manners studied and elaborate ; 
That whoso feels such passion in its 

strength 
Must live within the very light and air 
Of courteous usages refined by art. 
True is it, where oppression worse than 

death 
Salutes the being at his birth, where grace 
Of culture hath been utterly unknown, 
A*nd poverty and labor in excess 
From day to day pre-occupy the ground 
Of the affections, and to Nature's self 
Oppose a deeper nature ; there, indeed, 
Love cannot be ; nor does it thrive with 

ease 
Among the close and overcrowded haunts 
Of cities, where the human heart is sick. 
And the eye feeds it not, and cannot feed. 
— Yes, in those wanderings deeply did I 

feel 
How we mislead each other ; above all. 
How books mislead us, seeking their re- 
ward 
From judgments of the wealthy Few, who 

see 
By artificial lights ; how they debase 
The Many for the pleasure of those Few; 
Effeminately level down the truth 
To certain general notions, for the sake 
Of being understood at once, or else 
Through want of better knowledge in the 

heads 
That framed them ; flattering self-conceit 

with words. 
That, while they most ambitiously set forth 
Extrinsic differences, the outward marks 
Whereby society has parted man 
From man, neglect the universal heart. 

Here, calling up to mind what then I 

saw, 
A youthful traveller, and see daily now 
In the familiar circuit of my home, 
Here might I pause, and bend in reverence 
To Nature, and the power of human minds, 
To men as tliey are men within themselves. 
How oft high service is performed within. 
When all the external man is rude in show,^ 
Not like a temple rich with pomp and gold, 
But^ mere mountain chapel, that protects 
Its simple worshippers from sun and 

shower. 
Of these, said I, shall be my song \ o( 

thcsei 



588 



THE PRELUDE. 



If future years mature me for the task, 
Will I record the praises, making verse 
Dxsal boldly with substantial things ; in 

truth 
And sanctity of passion, speak of these, 
That justice may be done, obeisance paid 
Where it is due : thus happy shall I teach, 
Inspire ; through unadulterated ears 
Pour rapture, tenderness, and hope, — my 

theme 
No other than the very heart of man, 
As found among the best of those who 

live, • 

Not unexalted by religious faith, 
Nor uninformed by books, good books, 

though few, 
In Nature's presence: thence may I select 
Sorrow, that is not sorrow, but delight ; 
And miserable love, that is not pain 
To hear of, for the glory that redounds 
Therefrom to human kind, and what we 

are. 
Be mine to follow with no timid step 
Where knowledge leads me : it shall be my 

pride 
That I have dared to tread this holy 

ground, 
Speaking no dream, but things oracular ; 
Matter not lightly to be heard by those 
Who to the letter of the outward promise 
Do read the invisible soul ; by men adroit 
In speech, and for communion with the 

world 
Accomplished; minds whose faculties are 

then 
Most active when they are most eloquent, 
And elevated most when most admired. 
Men may be found of other mould than 

these, ,, 

Who are their own upholders, to them- 
selves 
Encouragement, and energy, and will, 
Expressing liveliest thoughts in lively words 
As native passion dictates. Others, too, 
There are among the walks of homely life 
Still higher, men for contemplation framed, 
Shy, and unpractised in the strife of phrase ; 
Meek men, whose very souls perhaps would 

sink 
Beneath them, summoned to such inter- 
course : 
Theirs is the language of the heavens, the 

power. 
The thought, the image, and the silent joy ; 
Words are but under-agents in their souls ; 
When they are graspii/g with their greatest 

Strength, 



They do not breathe among them : this ] 

speak 
In gratitude to God, Who feeds our hearts 
For his own service ; knoweth, loveth us^ 
When we are unregarded by the world. ^.' 

Also, about this time did I receive 
Convictions still more strong than hereto< 

fore, 
Not only that the inner frame is good. 
And graciously composed, but that, no 

less. 
Nature for all conditions wants not power 
To consecrate, if we have eyes to see. 
The outside of her creatures, and to breathe 
Grandeur upon the very humblest face 
Of human life. I felt that the array 
Of act and circumstance, and visible form. 
Is mainly to the pleasure of the mind 
What passion makes them ; that meanwhila 

the forms 
Of Nature have a passion in themselves, 
That intermingles with those works of man 
To which she summons him ; although the 

works 
Be mean, have nothing lofty of their own ; 
And that the Genius of the Poet hence 
May boldly take his way among mankind 
Wherever Nature leads , that he hath stood 
By Nature's side among the men of old. 
And so shall stand forever. Dearest 

Friend ! 
If thou partake the animating faith 
That poets, even as Prophets, each with 

each 
Connected in a mighty scheme of truth, 
Have each his own peculiar faculty, 
Heaven's gift, a sense that fits him to 

perceive 
Objects unseen before, thou wilt not blame 
The humblest of this band who dares to 

hope 
Tliat unto him hath also been vouchsafed 
An insight that in some sort he possesses, 
A privilege whereby a work of his, 
Proceeding from a source of untaught 

things, 
Creative and enduring, may become 
A power like one of Nature's. To a hope 
Not less ambitious once among the wilds 
Of Sarum's Plain, my youthful spirit was 

raised ; 
There, as I ranged at will the pastoral 

downs 
Trackless and smooth, or paced tl :; bare 

white roads 
Lengthening in solitude their dreary line, 



THE PRELUDE. 



589 



Time with his retinue of ages fled 
Backwards, nor checked his flight until I 

saw 
Our dim ancestral Past in vision clear; 
Saw multitudes of men, and, here and there, 
A single Briton clothed in wolf-skin vest, 
Wjth shield and stone-axe, stride across the 

word ; 
The voice of spears was heard, the rattling 

spear 
Shaken by arms of mighty bone, in 

strength, 
Long mouldered, of barbaric majesty. 
I called on Darkness — but before the word 
Was uttered, midnight darkness seemed to 

take 
All objects from my sight ; and lo ! again 
The Desert visible by dismal flames ; 
It is the sacrificial altar, fed 
With living men — how deep the groans ! 

tihe voice 
Of those that crowd the giant wicker thrills 
The monumental hillocks, and the pomp 
Is for both worlds, the living and the dead. 
At other moments — (for through that wide 

waste 
Three summer days I roamed) where'er the 

Plain 
Was figured o'er with circles, lines, or 

mounds, 
That yet survive, a work, as some divine, 
Shaped by the Druids, so to represent 
'JTlieir knowledge of the heavens, and image 

forth 
The constellations — gently was I charmed 
Into a waking dream, a reverie 
That, with believing eyes, where'er I 

turned. 
Beheld long-bearded teachers, with white 

wands 



Uplifted, pointing to the starry sky. 
Alternately, and plain below, while breath 
Of music swayed their motions, and the 
waste [sounds. 

Rejoiced with them and me in those sweet 

This for the past, and things that may be 

viewed 
Or fancied in the obscurity of years 
From monimiental hints : and thou, O 

Friend ! 
Pleased with some unpremeditated strains 
That served those wanderings to beguile, 

hast said 
That then and there my mind had exercised 
Upon tlie vulgar forms of present things, 
The actual world of our familiar days. 
Yet higher power ; had caught from them a 

tone, 
An image, and a character, by books 
Not hitherto reflected. Call we this 
A partial judgment — and yet why .? {or then 
Wc were as strangers ; and I may not speak 
Thus wrongfully of verse, however rude. 
Which on thy young imagination, trained 
In the great City, broke like light from far. 
Moreover, each man's Mind is to herself 
Witness and judge ; and I remember well 
That in life's every-day appearances 
I seemed about this time to gain clear sight 
Of a new world — a world, too, that was fit 
To be transmitted, and to other eyes 
Made visible ; as ruled by those fixed laws 
Whence spiritual dignity originates, 
Which do both give it being'and maintain 
A balance, an ennobling interchange 
Of action from without and from within ; 
The excellence, pure function, and best 

power • 

Both of the object seen, and eye that sees. 



BOOK FOURTEENTH. 



CONCLUSION. 

In one of those excursions (may they ne'er 
Fade from remembrance!) through the 

Northern tracts 
Of Cambria ranging with a youthful friend, 
I left Bethgelert's huts at couching-time. 
And westward took mv way, to see the sun 
Rise, from the top of Snowdon, To the 

door 



Of a rude cottage at the mountain's base 

We came, and roused the shepherd who at- 
tends 

The adventurous stranger's steps, a trusty 
guide ; 

Then, cheered by short refreshment, sallied 
forth. 

It was a close, warm, breezeless summer 
night. 
Wan, duU, and glaring, with a dripping fog 



590 



THE PRELUDE. 



Low-hung and thick that covered all the 

sky ; 
But, undiscouraged, we began to climb 
The mountain-side. The mist soon girt us 

round, 
And, after ordinary travellers' talk 
With our conductor, pensively v^^e sank 
Each into conmierce with his private 

thoughts : 
Thus did we breast the ascent, and by my- 
self 
Was nothing either seen or heard that 

checked 
Those musings or diverted, save that once 
^ The shepherd's lurcher, who, among the 

crags. 
Had to his joy unearthed a hedgehog, 

teased 
His coiled-up prey with barkings turbulent. 
This small adventure, for even such it 

seemed 
In that wild place and at the dead of night, 
Being over and forgotten, on we wound 
In silence as before. With forehead bent 
Earthward, as if in opposition set 
Against an enemy, I panted up 
With eager pace and no less eager thoughts. 
'J'hus might we wear a midnight hour away. 
Ascending at loose distance each from eacli, 
And I, as chanced, tlie foremost of the 

band ; 
^When at my feet the ground appeared to 

brighten 
And with a step or two seemed brighter 

still ; 
Nor was time given to ask or learn the 

cause, 
For instantly a light upon the turf 
FeH like a flash, and 1) ! as I looked up, 
The Moon hung naked in a firmament 
Of azure without cloud, and at my feet 
Rested a silent sea of hoary mist. 
A hundred hills their dusky backs upheaved 
All over this still ocean ; and beyond. 
Far, far beyond, the solid vapors stretched. 
In headlands, tongues, and promontory 

shapes, 
Into the main Atlantic, that appeared 
To dwindle, and give up his majesty. 
Usurped upon far as the sight could reach. 
Not so the ethereal vault ; encroachment 

none 
Was there, nor loss ; only the inferior stars 
Had disappeared, or shed a fainter light 
In the clear presence of the full-orbed Moon, 
Who, from her sovereicjn elevation, gazed 
Upon the billowy ocean, as it lay 



All meek and silent, save that through a 
rift — [stood, 

Not distant from the shore whereon we 
A fixed, abysmal, gloomy, breathing-place — 
Mounted the roar of waters, torrents, 

streams 
Innumerable, roaring with one voice ! 
Heard over earth and sea, and, in that hour, 
For so it seemed, felt by the starry heavens. 

When into air had partially dissolved 
That vision, given to spirits of the nigh 
And three chance human wanderers, in calm 

thought 
Reflected, it appeared to me the type 
Of a majestic intellect, its acts 
And its possessions, what it has and crave». 
What in itself it is, and would become. 
There I beheld the emblem of a mind 
That feeds upon infinity, that broods 
Over the dark abyss, intent to hear 
Its voices issuing forth to silent light 
In one continuous stream ; a mind sus- 
tained 
By recognitions of transcendent power, 
In sense conducting to ideal form. 
In soul of more than mortal privilege. 
One function, above all, of such a mind 
Had Nature shadowed there, by putting 

forth, 
'Mid circumstances awful and sublime, 
That mutual domination which she loves 
To exert upon the face of outward things, 
So moulded, joined, abstracted, so endowed 
With interchangeable supremacy. 
That men, least sensitive, see, hear, per- 
ceive. 
And cannot choose but feel. The power, 

which all 
Acknowledge when thus moved, which Na- 
ture thus 
To bodily sense exhibits, is the express 
Resemblance of that glorious faculty 
That higher minds bear with them as their 

own. 
This is the very spirit in which they deal 
With the whole compass of the universe : 
They from their native selves can send 

abroad 
Kindred mutations ; for themselves create 
A like existence ; and, whene'er it dawns 
Created for them, catch it, or are caught 
By its inevitable mastery. 
Like angels stopped upon the wing by 

sound 
Of harmony from Heaven's remoteet 
spheres, 



THE PRELUDE. 



591 



Them the enduring and the transient both 
Serve to exalt ; they build up greatest 

things 
From least suggestions ; ever on the watch, 
Willing to work and to be wrought upon, 
Tiiey need not extraordinary calls 
To rouse them ; in a world of life they live, 
By sensible impressions not enthralled. 
But by their quickening impulse made more 

prompt 
To hold fit converse with the spiritual 

world, 
And with the generations of mankind 
Spread over time, past, present, and to 

come, 
Age after age, till Time shall be no more. 
rSuch minds are truly from the Deity, 

For they are Powers ; and hence the highest 

bliss 
That flesh can know is theirs — the con- 
sciousness 
Of Whom they are, habitually infused 
Through every image and through every 

thought, 
And all affections by communion raised 
From earth to heaven, from human to di- 
vine ; 
Hence endless occupation for the Soul, 
Whether discursive or intuitive ; 
Hence cheerfulness for acts of daily life. 
Emotions which best foresight need not 

fear, 
Most worthy then of trust when most in- 
tense. 
Hence, amid ills that vex and wrongs that 

crush 
Ourjiearts — if here the words of Holy 

VVrit; 
May with fit reverence be applied — that 

42£iiCe 

Which passeth understanding, that repose 
In moral jiirdgments which from this pure 

source 
Must come, or will by man be sought in 

vain. 

Oh ! who is he that hath his whole life 
long 

Preserved, enlarged, this freedom in him- 
self? 

For this alone is genuine liberty : 

Where is the favored being who hath 
held 

That course unchecked, unerring, and un- 
tired. 

In one perpetual progress smooth and 
bright?— 



A humbler destiny have we retraced, 
And told of lapse and hesitating choice, 
And backward wanderings along thorny 

ways : 
Yet — compassed round by mountain soli- 
tudes, 
Within whose solemn temple I received 
My earliest visitations, careless then 
Of what was given me ; and which now 1 

range, 
A meditative, oft a suffering man — 
Do I declare — in accents which, from truth 
Deriving cheerful confidence, shall blend 
Their modulation with these vocal streams — 
That, whatsoever falls my better mind. 
Revolving with the accidents of life. 
May have sustained, that, howsoe'er misled. 
Never did I, in quest of right and wrong. 
Tamper with conscience from a private aim ; 
Nor was in any public hope the dupe 
Of selfish passions ; nor did ever yield 
Wilfully to mean cares or low pursuits, 
But shrunk with apprehensive jealousy 
From every combination which might aid 
The tendency, too potent in itself. 
Of use and custom to bow down the soul 
Under a growing weight of vulgar sense, 
And substitute a universe of death 
For that which moves with light and life in. 

formed, ^ 

Actual, divine, and true. To fear and love, 
To love as prime and chief, for there fear 

ends. 
Be this ascribed , to early intercourse, 
In presence of sublime or beautiful forms. 
With the adverse principles of pain and 

joy- 
Evil, as one is rashly named by men 
Who know not what they speak. By love 

subsists 
All lasting grandeur, by pervading love ; 
That gone, we are as dust, — Behold the 

fields 
In balmy spring-time full of rising flowers 
And joyous creatures ; see that pair, the 

lamb 
And the lamb's mother, and their tender 

ways 
Shall touch thee to the heart ; thou callcst 

this love. 
And not inaptly so, for love it is. 
Far as it carries thee. In some green 

bower 
Rest, and be not alone, but have thou there 
The One who is thy choice of all the world; 
There linger, hstening, gazing, with de* 

Ught 



50' 



THE PRELUDE. 



Impassioned, but delight how pitiable I 

Unless this love by a still higher love 

Be hallowed, love that breathes not without 

awe , 
Love that adores, but on the knees of 

prayer. 
By heaven inspired ; that frees from chains 

the soul, 
Lifted, in union with the purest, best. 
Of earth-born passions, on the wings of 

praise 
Bearing a tribute to the Almighty's 

Throne.j 

This spfritual Love acts not nor can 

exist 
Without Imagination, which, in truth, 
Is but another name for absolute power 
And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, 
And Reason in her most exalted mood. 
This faculty hath been the feeding source 
Of our long labor : we have traced the 

stream 
From the blind cavern whence is faintly 

heard 
Its natal murmur ; followed it to light 
And open day ; accompanied its course 
Among the ways of Nature, for a time 
Lost sight of it bewildered and engulphed ; 
Then given it greeting as it rose once more 
In strength, reflecting from its placid 

breast 
The works of man, and face of human life ; 
And lastly, from its progress have we 

drawn 
Faith in life endless, the sustaining thought 
Of human Being, Eternity, and God. 

Imagination having been our theme. 
So also hath that intellectual Love, 
For they are each in each, and cannot stand 
Dividually. — Here must thou be, O Man ! 
Power to thyself ; no helper hast thou here ; 
Here keepest thou in singleness thy state : 
No other can divide with thee this work : 
No secondary hand can intervene 
To fashion this ability ; 'tis thine, 
The prime and vital principle is thine 
In the recesses of thy nature, far 
From any reach of outward fellowship, 
Else is not thine at all. But joy to him, 
Oh, joy to him who here hath sown, hath 

laid 
Here, the foundation of his future years ! 
For all that friendship, all that love can do, 
All that a darling countenance can look 
Or dear voice utter, to complete the man, 



Perfect him, made imperfect in himself, 
All shall be his : and he whose soul hath 

risen 
Up to the height of feeling intellect 
Shall want no humbler tenderness ; his 

heart 
Be tender as a nursing mother's heart ; 
Of female softness shall his life be full, 
Of humble cares and delicate desires. 
Mild interests and gentlest sympathies. 

Child of my parents ! Sister of my soul ! 
Thanks in sincerest verse have been else- 

wliere 
Poured out for all the early tenderness 
Wliich I from thee imbibed : and 'tis most 

true 
That later seasons owed to thee no less ; 
For, spite of thy sweet influence and the 

touch 
Of kindred hands that opened out the 

springs 
Of genial thought in childhood, and in spite 
Of all that unassisted I had marked 
In life or nature of those charms minute 
That win their way into the heart by stealth, 
Still, to the very going-out of youth, 
I too exclusively esteemed that love. 
And sought that beauty, which, as Milton 

sings. 
Hath terror in it. Thou didst soften down 
This over-sternness ; but for thee, dear 

Friend ! 
My soul, too reckless of mild grace, had 

stood 
In her original self too confident. 
Retained too long a countenance severe ; 
A rock with torrents roaring, with the 

clouds 
Familiar, and a favorite of the stars : 
But thou didst plant its crevices witn 

flowers, 
Hang it with shrubs that twinkle in the 

breeze. 
And teach the little birds to build their 

nests 
And warble in its chambers. At a time 
When Nature, destined to remain so long 
Foremost in my affections, had fallen back 
Into a second place, pleased to become 
A handmaid to a nobler than herself, 
When every day brought with it some new 

sense 
Of exquisite regard for common things, 
And all the earth was budding wjith these 

gifts 
Of more refined humanity, thy breath, 



THE PRELUDE. 



593 



Dear Sister ! was a kind of gentler spring 
That went before my steps. Thereafter 

came 
One whom with thee friendship had early 

paired ; 
She came, no more a phantom to adorn 
A moment, but an inmate of the heart, 
And yet a spirit, there for me enshrined 
To penetrate the lofty and the low ; 
Even as one essence of pervading light 
Shines, in the brightness of ten thousand 

stars. 
And the meek worm that feeds her lonely 

lamp 
Couched in the dewy grass. 

With such a theme, 
Coleridge ! with this my argument, of thee 
Shall I be silent ? O capacious Soul ! 
Placed on this earth to love and under- 
stand, 
And from thy presence shed the light of 

love. 
Shall I be mute, ere thou be spoken of ? 
Thy kindred influence to my heart of 

hearts 
Did also find its way. Thus fear relaxed 
Her ov«r-weening grasp ; thus thoughts and 

tilings 
In the self-haunting spirit learned to take 
More rational proportions ; mystery, 
The incumbent mystery of sense and soul, 
Of life and death, time and eternity, 
Admitted more habitually a mild 
Interposition — a serene delight 
In closelier gathering cares, such as become 
A human creature, howsoe'er endowed. 
Poet, or destined for a humbler name ; 
And so the deep enthusiastic joy, 
The rapture of the hallelujah sent 
From all that breathes and is, was chastened, 

stemmed 
And balanced by pathetic truth, by trust 
In hopeful reason, leaning on the stay 
Of Providence ; and in reverence for duty, 
Here, if need be, struggling with storms, 

and there 
Strewing in peace life's humblest ground 

with herbs. 
At every season green, sweet at all hours. 

And now, O Friend ! this history is 

brought 
To its appointed close : the discipline 
And consummation of a Poet's mind, 
In everything that stood most prominent, 
Havt faithfully been pictured; we have 

reached 



The time (our guiding object from the first) 
When we may, not presumptuously, I hope, 
Suppose my powers so far confirmed, and 

such 
My knowledge, as to make me capable 
Of building up a Work that shall endure. 
Yet much hath been omitted, as need was ■, 
Of books how much ! and even of the other 

wealth 
That is collected among woods and fields, 
Far more : for Nature's secondary grace 
Hath hitherto been barely touched upon. 
The charm more superficial that attends 
Her works, as they present to Fancy's 

choice 
Apt illustrations of the moral world. 
Caught at a glance, or traced with curious 

pains. 
Finally, and above all, O Friend! (I 

speak 
With due regret) how much is overlooked 
In human nature and her subtle ways, 
As studied first in our own hearts, and then 
In life among the passions of mankind, 
Varying their composition and their hue, 
Where'er we move, under the diverse 

shapes 
That individual character presents 
To an attentive eye. For progress meet, 
Along this intricate and difficult path, 
Whate'er was wanting, something had ( 

gained. 
As one of many schoolfellows compelled 
In hardy independence to stand up 
Amid conflicting interests, and the shock 
Of various tempers ; to endure and note 
What was not understood, though known t« 

be; 
Among the mysteries of love and hate, 
Honor and shame, looking to right and left, 
Unchecked by innocence too delicate. 
And moral notions too intolerant, 
Sympathies too contracted. Hence, when 

called 
To take a station among men, the step 
Was easier, the transition more secure, 
More profitable also ; for the mind 
Learns from such timely exercise to keep 
In wholesome separation the two natures, 
The one that feels, the other that observes- 

Yet one more word of personal coiv 
cern ; — 
Since I withdrew unwillingly from France, 
I led an undomestic wanderer's life. 
In London chiefly harbored, whence \ 
roamed, 



^94 



THE PRELUDE. 



Tarrying at will in many a pleasant spot 

Of rural England's cultivated vales 

Or Cambrian solitudes. A youth— (he 

bore 
The name of Calvert— it shall live, if words 
Of mine can give it life,) in firm belief 
Tiiat by endowments not from me with- 
held 
Good might be furthered— in his last de- 
cay 
By a bequest sufficient for my needs j 

Enabled me to pause for choice, and walk j 
At large and unrestrained, nor damped too 

soon 
By mortal cares. Himself no Poet, yet 
Far less a common follower of the world, 
He deemed that my pursuits and labors lay 
Apart from all that leads to wealth, or even 
A necessary maintenance insures, 
Without some hazard to the finer sense ; 
He cleared a passage for me, and the 

stream 
Flowed in the bent of Nature. 

Having now 
Told what best merits mention, further I 
pains j 

Our present purpose seems not to require, | 
And 1 have other tasks. Recall to mind ! 
The mood in which this labor was begun, I 

Friend ! The termination of my course 
Is nearer now, much nearer ; yet even then. 
In that distraction and intense desire, 

1 said unto the life which I had lived, 
Where art thou ? Hear I not a voice from 

thee. 
Which 'tis reproach to hear ? Anon I rose 
As if on wings, and saw beneath me 

stretched 
Vast prospect of the world which I had 

been 
And was ; and hence this Song^ which like 

a lark 
I have protracted, in the unwearied heav- 
ens 
Singing, and often with more plaintive 

voice 
To earth attempered and her deep-drawn 

sighs. 
Yet centring all in love, and in the end 
All gratulant, if rightly understood. 

Whether to me shall be allotted life, 
And, with life, power to accomplish aught 

of worth. 
That will be deemed no insufficient plea 
For having given the story of myself, 
t all uncertain : but, beloved Friend ! 



When, looking back, thou seest, in clearer 

view 
Than any liveliest sight of yesterday, 
That summer, under whose indulgent skies 
Upon smooth Quantock's airy ridge Vvie 

roved 
Unchecked, or loitered 'mid her sylvan 

combs. 
Thou in bewitching words, with happy 

heart, 
Didst chaunt the vision of that Ancient 

Man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner, and rueful woes 
Didst utter of the Lady Christabel ; 
And I, associate with such labor, steeped 
In soft forgetfulness the livelong hours, 
Murmuring of him who, joyous hap, was 

found, 
After the perils of his moonlight ride. 
Near the loud waterfall ; or her who sate 
In misery near the miserable Thorn ; 
When thou dost to that summer turn thy 

thoughts. 
And hast before thee all which then we 

were. 
To thee, in memory of that happiness. 
It will be known, by thee at least, my 

Friend ! 
Felt, that the history of a Poet's mind 
Is labor not unworthy of regard : 
To thee the work shall justify itself. 

The last and later portions of this gift 
Have been prepared, not with the buoyant 

spirits 
That were our daily portion when we first 
Togetlier wantoned in wild Poesy, 
But, under pressure of a private grief, 
Keen and enduring, which the mind and 

heart. 
That in this meditative history 
Have beed laid open, needs must make me 

feel 
More deeply, yet enable me to bear 
More firmly ; and a comfort now hath risen 
From hope that thou art near, and wilt be 

soon 
Restored to us in renovated health ; 
When, after the first mingling of our tears, 
'Mong other consolations we may draw 
Some pleasure from this offering of my 

love. 
Oh ! yet a few short years of useful life. 
And all will be complete, thy race be run. 
Thy monument of glory will be raised ; 
Then, though (too weak to tread the ways 

of trutia) 



THE EXCURSION. 



595 



This age fall back to old idolatry, 
Though men return to servitude as fast 
As the tide ebbs, to i'^nominy and shame 
By nations sink together, we shall still 
Find solace — knowing what we have learnt 

to know, 
Rich in true happiness if allowed to be 
Faithful alike in forwarding a day 
Of firmer trust, joint laborers in the work 
■(Should Providence such grace to us vouch- 
safe) 
Of their deliverance, surely yet to come. 
Prophets of Nature, we to them will speak 
A lasting inspiration, sanctified 



By reason, blest by faith : what we have 

loved, 
Others will love, and we will teach them 

how ; 
Instruct them how the mind of man be- 
comes [earth 
A thousand times more beautiful than the 
On which he dwells, above this frame of 

things 
(Which, 'mid all revolution in the hopes 
And fears of men, doth still remain u*- 

changed) 
In beauty exalted, as it is itself 
Of quality and fabric more divine. 



THE EXCURSION. 



THE RIGHT HONORABLE WILLIAM, EARL OF LONSDALE, K.G., 
ETC., ETC. 



Oft, through thy fair domains, illustrious 

Peer! 
In youth I roamed, on youthful pleasures bent ; 
And mused in rocky cell or sylvan tent, 
Beside swifi-flowing Lowtlier's current clear. 
—Now, by thy care befriended, I appear 
Before thee, Lonsdale, and this Work pre- 
sent, 

Rydal Mount, Westmoreland, 
July 2^, 1814. 



A token (may it prove a monument ! ) 
Of liigh respect and gratitude sincere. 
Gladly would I have waited till my task 
Had reached its close ; but life is insecure, 
And Hope full oft fallacious as a dream : 
Therefore, for what is here produced, I ask 
Thy favor, trusting that thou wilt not deem 
The offering, though imperfect, premature. 
William Wordsworth. 



PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1S14. 



The title-page announces that this is only 
a portion of a poem ; and the Reader must 
be here apprised that it belongs to the 
second part of a long and laborious Work, 
which is to consist of three parts. — The 
Author will candidly acknowledge that, if 
the first of these had been completed, and 
in such a manner as to satisfy his own mind, 
he should have preferred the natural order 
of publication, and have given that to the 
world first ; but, as the second division of 
the Work was designed to refer more to 



I passing events, and to an existing state of 
things, than the others were meant to do, 
more continuous exertion was naturally be 

' stowed upon it, and greater progress made 
here than in the rest of tl.e poem ; and as 
this part does not depend upon the preced- 
ing, to a degree which will materially injure 
its own peculiar interests, the Author, 
complying with the earnest entreaties of 
some valued Friends, presents the following 
pages to the Public, 
it may be proper to state whence the 



59^ 



THE EXCURSION. 



poem, of which The Excursion is a part, de- 
rives its Title of The Recluse.— Several 
years ago, when the Author retired to his 
native mountains, with the hope of being 
enabled to construct a literary Work that 
might live, it was a reasonable thing that he 
should take a review of his own mind, and 
examine how far Nature and Education had 
qualified him for such employment. As 
subsidiary to this preparation, he undertook 
to record, m verse, the origin and progress 
of his own powers, as far as he was ac- 
quainted with them. That Work, ad- 
dressed to a dear Friend, most distin- 
guished for his knowledge and genius, and 
to whom the Author's Intellect is deeply in- 
debted, has been long finished, and the re- 
sult of the investigation which gave rise to 
it was a determination to compose a philo- 
sophical poem, containing views of Man, 
Nature, and Society ; and to be entitled The 
Recluse ; as having for its principal sub- 
ject the sensations and opinions of a poet 
living in retirement. — The preparatory poem 
is biographical, and conducts the history of 
the Author's mind to the point when he was 
emboldened to hope that his faculties were 
sufficiently matured for entering upon the 
arduous labor which he had proposed to 
himself ; and the two Works have the same 
kind of relation to each other, if he may so 
express himself, as the ante-chapel has to 
the body of a gothic church. Continuing 
this allusion, he may be permitted to add, 
that his minor Pieces, whicli have been long 
before the Public, when they shall be prop- 
erly arranged, will be found by the atten- 
tive Reader to have such connection with 
the main Work as may give them claim to 
be likened to the little cells, oratories, and 
sepulchral recesses, ordinarily included in 
those edifices. 

The Author would not have deemed him- 
self justified in saying, on this occasion, so 
much of performances either unfinished or 
unpublished, if he had not thought that the 
labor bestowed by him upon what he has 
heretofore and now laid before the Public 
entitled him to candid attention for such a 
statement as he thinks necessary to throw 
light upon his endeavors to please and, he 
would hope, to benefit his countrymen. — 
Nothing further need be added, than that 
the first and third parts of The Recluse 
will consist chiefly of meditations in the 
Author's own person ; and that in the inter- 
mediate part (The Excursion J the interven- 



tion of characters speaking is employed, and 
something of a dramatic form adopted. 

It is not the Author's intention formally 
to announce a system ; it was more anima- 
ting to him to proceed in a different course ; 
and if he shall succeed in conveying to the 
mind clear thoughts, lively images, and 
strong feelings, the Reader will have no dif- 
ficulty in extracting the system for himself. 
And in the mean time, the following pas- 
sage, taken from the conclusion of the first 
book of The Recluse, may be acceptable as a 
kind of Prospecttis of the design and scope 
of the whole Poem. 

" On Man, on Nature, and on Human 
Life, 
Musing in solitude, I oft perceive 
Fair trains of imagery before me rise, 
Accompanied by feelings of delight 
Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed ; 
And I am conscious of affecting thoughts 
And dear remembrances, whose presence 

soothes 
Or elevates the Mind, intent to weigh 
The good and evil of our mortal state. 
— To these emotions, whencesoe'er they 

come, 
Whether from breath of outward circum- 
stance. 
Or from the Soul — an impulse to herself — 
I would give utterance in numerous verse. 
Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and 

Hope, 
And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith ; 
Of blessed consolations in distress ; 
Of moral strength, and intellectual Power; 
Of joy in widest commonalty spread ; 
Of the individual Mind, that keeps her own 
Inviolate retirement, subject there 
To Conscience only, and the law supreme 
Of that intelligence which governs all — 
I sing : — ' fit audience let me find though 
few!' 

So prayed, more gaining than he asked, 

the Bard— 
In holiest mood. Urania, I shall need 
Thy guidance, or a greater Muse, if such 
Descend to earth or dwell in highest 

heaven ! 
For I must tread on shadowy ground, must 

sink 
Deep — and, aloft ascending, breathe in 

worlds 
To wliich the heaven of heavens is but « 

veil. 



THE EXCURSION. 



597 



AH strength — all terror, single or in bands, 
That ever was put forth in personal form — 
Jehovah — with his thunder, and the choir 
Of shouting Angels, and the empyreal 

thrones — 
I pass them unalarmed. Not Chaos, not 
The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, 
JJor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out 
By help of dreams — can breed such fear and 

awe 
As fall upon us often when we look 
Into our Minds, into the Mind of Man — 
My haunt, and the main region of my song. 
— Beauty — a living presence of the earth, 
Surpassing the most fair ideal Forms 
Which craft of delicate Spirits hath com- 
posed 
From earth's materials — waits upon my 

steps ; 
Pitches her tents before me as I move, 
An hourly neighbor. Paradise, and groves 
Elysian, Fortunate Fields — like those of old 
Sought in the Atlantic Main — why should 

they be 
A history only of departed things, 
Or a mere fiction of what never was ? 
For the discerning intellect of Man, 
When wedded to this goodly universe 
In love and holy passion, shall find these 
A simple produce of the common day. 
— I, long before the blissful hour arrives, 
Would chant, in lonely peace, the spousal 

verse 
Of this great consummation : — and, by 

words 
Which speak of nothing more than what we 

are, 
Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep 
Of Death, and win the vacant and the vain 
To noble raptures ; while my voice pro- 
claims 
How exquisitely the individual Mind 
(And the progressive powers perhaps no 

less 
Of the whole species) to the external World 
Is fitted : — and how exquisitely, too — 
Theme this but little heard of among men — 
The external World is fitted to the Mind; 
And tlie creation (by no lower name 



Can it be called) which they with blended 

might 
Accomplish : — this is our high argument. 
— Such grateful haunts foregoing, if 1 oft 
Must turn elsewhere — to travel near the 

tribes 
And fellowships of men, and see ill sights 
Of maddening passions mutually inflamed ; 
Must hear Humanity in fields and groves 
Pipe solitary anguish ; or must hang 
Brooding above the fierce confederate storm 
Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore 
Within the walls of cities — may these sounds 
Have their authentic comment ; that even 

these 
Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn ! — 
Descend, prophetic Spirit! that inspir'st 
The human Soul of universal earth, 
Dreaming on things to come ; and dost pos- 
sess 
A metropolitan temple in the hearts 
Of mighty Poets : upon me bestow 
A gift of genuine insight, that my Song 
With star-like virtue in its place may shine, 
Shedding benignant influence, and secure, 
Itself, from all malevolent effect 
Of those mutations that extend their sway 
Throughout the nether sphere ! — And if 

with this 
I mix more lowly matter ; with the thing 
Contemplated, describe the Mind and Man 
Contemplating ; and who, and what he 

was — 
The transitory Being that beheld 
This Vision : when and where, and how he 

lived ; 
Be not this labor useless. If such theme 
May sort with highest objects, then — dread 

Power ! 
Whose gracious favor is the primal source 
Of all illumination — may my Life 
Express the image of a better time, 
More wise desires, and simpler manners:— 

nurse 
My Heart in genuine freedom :— all pnrt 

thoughts 
Be with me ;— so shall thy rnfailing love 
Guide, and support, and cheei me to tfae 

end!" 



598 



THE EXCURSION'. 



BOOK FIRST. 



THE WANDERER. 

ARGUMENT. 

A summer forenoon. — Tlie Author reaches a 
ruined Cottage upon a Common, and there 
meets with a revered Friend, the Wanderer, 
of whose education and course of life he gives 
an account. — The Wanderer, wliile resting 
under tlie sliade of the Trees that surround 
the Cottage, relates the History of its last 
Inhabitant. 

TvvAS summer, and the sun had mounted 

high : 
Southward the landscape indistinctly glared 
Through a pale steam ; but all the northern 

downs, 
In clearest air ascending, showed far off 
A surface cappled o'er with shadows. flung 
From brooding clouds ; shadows that lay in 

spots 
Determined and unmoved, with steady 

beams 
Of bright and pleasant sunshine interposed ; 
To him most pleasant who on soft cool moss 
Extends his careless limbs along the front 
Of some huge cave, whose rocky ceiling casts 
A twilight of its own, an ample shade, 
Where the wren warbles, while the dreaming 

man, 
Half-conscious of the soothing melody. 
With side-long eye looks out upon the scene. 
By power of that impending covert, thrown 
To finer distance. Mine was at that hour 
Far other lot, yet with good hope that soon 
Under a shade as grateful I should find 
Rest, and be welcomed there to livelier joy. 
Across a bare wide Common I was toiling 
With languid steps tliat by tlie slippery turf 
Were baffled ; nor could my weak arm dis- 
perse 
The host of insects gathering round my face, 
And ever with me as I paced along. 

Upon that open moorland stood a grove, 
The wished-for port to which my course was 

bound. 
Thither I came, and there, amid the gloom 
Spread by a brothei^hood of lofty elms, 
Appeared a roofless Hut ; four naked walls 
That stared upon each other ! — I looked 

round, 
And to my wish and to my hope espied 
The Friend I sought ; a Man of reverend 

age, 



But stout and hale, for travel unimpaired. 
There was he seen upon the cottage-bench, 
Recumbent in the shade, as if asleep ; 
An iron-pointed staff lay at his side. 

Him had I marked the day before — alone 
And stationed in the public way, with face 
Turned toward the sun then setting, while 

that staff 
Afforded, to the figure of the man 
Detained for contemplation or repose, 
Graceful support ; his countenance as he 

stood 
Was hidden from my view, and he remained 
Unrecognized ; but, stricken by the sight, 
With slackened footsteps I advanced, and 

soon 
A glad congratulation we exchanged 
At such unthought-of meeting. — For the 

night 
We parted, nothing willingly ; and now 
He by appointment waited for me here, 
Under the covert of these clustermg elms. 

We were tried Friends ; amid a pleasant 

vale. 
In the antique market-village where was 

passed [owned, 

My school - time, an apartment he had 
To which at intervals the Wanderer drew. 
And found a kind of home or harbor there. 
He loved me ; from a swarm of rosy boys 
Singled out me, as he in sport would say. 
For my grave looks, too thoughtful for my 

years. 
As I grew up, it was my best delight 
To be his chosen comrade. INIany a time. 
On holidays, we rambled through the woods ; 
We sate — we walked ; he pleased me with. 

report 
Of things which he had seen ; and often 

touched 
Abstrusest matter, reasonings of the mind 
Turned inward ; or at my request would sing. 
Old songs, the product of his native hills ; 
A skilful distribution of sweet sounds. 
Feeding the soul, and eagerly imbibed 
As cool refreshing water, by the care 
Of the industrious husbandman, diffused 
Through a parched meadow-ground, in time 

of drought, 
Still deeper welcome found his pure dia 

course : 
How precious when in riper days I learned 



THE EXCURSION-. 



599 



To weigh with care his words, and to rejoice 
In the plain presence of his dignity ! 

Oh ! many are the Poets that are sown 
By Nature ; men endowed with highest gifts, 
The vision and the faculty divine ; 
Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse, 
(Which, in the docile season of their youth, 
It was denied them to acquire, through lack 
Of culture and the inspiring aid of books, 
Or haply by a temper too severe, 
Or a nice backwardness afraid of shame) 
Nor having e'er, as life advanced, been led 
By circumstance to take unto the height 
The measure of themselves, these favored 

Beings, 
All but a scattered few, live out their time. 
Husbanding that which they possess within. 
And go to the grave, unthought of. Strongest 

minds 
Are often those of whom the noisy world 
Hears least ; else surely this Man had not 

left 
His graces unrevealed and unproclaimed. 
But, as the mind was filled with inward 

light. 
So not without distinction had he lived. 
Beloved and honored — far as he was known. 
And some small portion of his eloquent 

speech, 
And something that may serve to set in view 
The feeling pleasures of h.s loneliness, 
His observations, and th th ughts his mind 
Had dealt with — I will her record in verse ; 
Which, if with truth it correspond, and sink 
Or rise as venerable Nature leads. 
The high and tender Muses shall accept 
With gracious smile, deliberately pleased. 
And listening Time reward with sacred 

praise. 

Among the hills of Athol he was born ; 
Where, on a small hereditary farm. 
An unproductive slip of rugged ground, 
His Parents, with their numerous offspring, 

dwelt; [poor! 

A virtuous household, thou:;h exceeding 
Pure livers were they all, austere and grave, 
And fearing God ; the very children taught 
Stern self-respect, a reverence for God's 

word. 
And an habitual piety, maintained 
With strictness scarcely known on English 

ground. 

From his sixth year, the Boy of whom I 
speak, 
In summer, tended cattle on the hills : 



But, through the inclement and the perilous 

days 
Of long-continuing winter, he repaired, 
Equipped with satchel, to a school, tha"" 

stood 
Sole building on a mountain's dreary edge, 
Remote from view of city spire, or sound 
Of minster clock ! From that bleak ten 

ment 
He, many an evening, to his distant homt 
In solitude returning, saw the hills 
Grow larger in the darkness ; all alone 
Beheld the stars come out above his head, 
And travelled through the wood, with no 

one near 
To whom he might confess the things he 

saw. 

So the foundations of his mind were laid. 
In such communion, not from terror free. 
While yet a child, and long before his time, 
Had he perceived the presence and the power 
Of greatness ; and deep feelings had im- 
pressed 
So vividly great objects that they lay 
Upon his mind like substances, whose pres- 
ence 
Perplexed the bodily sense. He had re- 
ceived 
A precious gift ; for, as he grew in years, 
With these impressions would he still com- 
pare 
All his remembrances, thoughts, shapes, 

and forms ; 
And, being still unsatisfied with aught 
Of dimmer character, he thence attained 
An active power to fasten images 
Upon his brain ; and on their pictured lines 
Intensely brooded, even till they acquired 
The liveliness of dreams. Nor did he fail. 
While yet a child, with a child's eagerness 
Incessantly to turn his ear and eye 
On all things which the moving seasons 

brought 
To feed such appetite — nor this alone 
Api^eased his yearning : — in the after-day 
Of boyhood, many an hour in caves forlorn, 
And 'mid the hollow deptlis of naked crags 
He sate, and even in their fixed lineaments, 
Or from the power of a peculiar eye. 
Or by creative feeling overborne. 
Or by predominance of thouglit oppressed, 
Even in their fixed and steady lineaments 
He traced an ebbing and a flowing mind. 
Expression ever varying ! 

Tluis infornv^d. 
He had small need of books \ for many a tak 



6oo 



THE EXCURSION. 



Traditionary, round the mountains hung, 
And many a legend, peopling the dark 

woods, 
Nourished Imagination in her growth, 
And gave the Mind that apprehensive power 
By which she is made quick to recognize 
The moral properties and scope of thmgs. 
But eagerly he read, and read again, 
Whate'er the minister's old shelf supplied ; 
The life and death of martyrs, who sus- 
tained, 
Wifh will inflexible, those fearful pangs 
Triumphantly displayed in records left 
Of persecution, and the Covenant — times 
Whose echo rings through Scotland to this 

hour ! 
And there, by lucky hap, had been preserved 
A straggling volume, torn and incomplete, 
That left half-told the preternatural tale, 
Romance of giants, chronicle of fiends, 
Profuse in garniture of wooden cuts 
Strange and uncouth ; dire faces, figures 

dire, 
Sharp-kneed, sharp-elbowed, and lean-ankled 

too, 
With long and ghostly shanks — forms which 

once seen 
Could never be forgotten ! 

In his heart. 
Where Fear sate thus, a cherished visitant, 
Was wanting yet the pure delight of love 
By sound diffused, or by the breathing air. 
Or by the silent looks of happy things. 
Or flowing from the imiversal face 
Of earth and sky. But he had felt the power 
Of Nature, and already was prepared. 
By his intense conceptions, to receive 
Deeply the lesson deep of love which he. 
Whom Nature, by whatever means, has 

taught 
To feel intensely, cannot but receive. 

Such was the Boy— but for the growing 

Youth 
What soul was his, when, from the naked 

top 
Of some bold headland, he beheld the sun 
Rise up, and bathe the world in light ! He 

looked — 
Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 
And ocean's liquid mass, in gladness lay 
Beneath him : — Far and wide the clouds 

were touched, 
And in their silent faces could he read 
Unutterable love. Sound needed none, 
Nor any voice of joy ; his spirit drank 
The spectacle : sensation, soul, and form, 



All melted into him : they swallowed up 
His animal being ; in them did he live, 
And by them did he live ; they were his life 
In such access of mind, in such high hour 
Of visitation from the living God, 
Thought was not ; in enjoyment it expired. 
No thanks h» breathed, he proffered no re- 
quest ; 
Rapt into still communion that transcends 
The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, 
His mind was a thanksgiving to the power 
That made him ; it was blessedness and love i 

A Herdsman on the lonely mountain tops, 
Such intercourse was his, and in this sort 
Was his existence oi\.&vi\Xvi\(t% possessed. 
O then how beautiful, how bright, appeared 
The written promise ! Early had he learned 
To reverence the volume that displays 
The mystery, the life which cannot die ; 
But in the mountains did \^Q.feel\\\s faitli. 
All things, responsive to the writing, there 
Breathed immortality, revolving life, 
And greatness still revolving; infinite: 
There littleness was not ; the least of things 
Seemed infinite ; and there his spirit shaped 
Her prospects, nor did he believe, — he saiu. 
What wonder if his being thus became 
Sublime and comprehensive ! Low desires, 
Low thoughts had there no place ; yet was 

his heart 
Lowly ; for he was meek in gratitude, 
Oft as lie called those ecstasies to mind, 
And whence they flowed ; and from them he 

acquired 
Wisdom, which works thro' patience thence 

he learned 
In oft-recurring hours of sober thought 
To look on Nature with a humble heart. 
Self-questioned where it did not understand, 
And with a superstitious eye of love. 

So passed the time ; yet to the nearest 
town 
He duly went with what small overplus 
His earnings might supply, and brought 

away 
The book that most had tempted his de- 
sires 
While at the stall he read. Among the 

hills 
He gazed upon that mighty orb of song, 
The divine Milton. Lore of different kind, 
The annual savings of a toilsome life, 
His School-master supplied ; books thatex^ 

plain 
The purer elements of truth involved 



THE EXCURSION. 



6oi 



In lines and numbers, and, by charm severe, 
; Especially perceived where nature droops 
And feeling is suppressed) preserve the 

mind 
3usy in solitude and poverty. 
These occupations oftentimes deceived 
The listless hours, while in the hollow vale, 
Hollow and green, he lay on the green 

turf 
In pensive idleness. What could he do, 
Thus daily thirsting, in that lonesome 

life. 
With blind endeavors ? Yet, still upper- 
most. 
Nature was at his heart as if he felt, 
Though yet he knew not how, a wastmg 

power 
In all tilings that from her sweet influence 
Miglittendto wean him. Therefore with 

her hues. 
Her forms, and with the spirit of her forms, 
He clothed the nakedness of austere truth. 
While yet he lingered in the rudiments 
Of science, and among her simplest laws. 
His triangles — they were the stars of heaven, 
The silent stars ! Oft did he take delight 
To measure the altitude of some tall crag 
That is the eagle's birth-place, or some 

peak 
Familiar with forgotten years, that shows 
Inscribed upon its visionary sides 
The history of many a winter storm, 
Or obscure records of the path of fire. 

And thus before his eighteenth year was 

told, 
Accumulated feelings pressed his heart 
With still increasing weight j he was o'er- 

powered 
Ry Nature ; by the turbulence subdued 
Of his own mind ; by mystery and hope, 
And the first virgin passion of a soul 
Communing with the glorious universe. 
Full often wished he that the winds might 

rage 
When they were silent : far more fondly 

now 
Than in his earlier season did he love 
Tempestous nights — the conflict and the 

sounds 
That live in darkness. From his intellect 
And from the stillness of abstracted thought 
He asked repose , and, failing oft to win 
The peace required, he scanned the laws of 

light 
Amid the roar of torrents, where they send 
From hollow clefts up to the clearer air 



A cloud of mist, that smitten by the sun 
Varies its rainbow hues. But vainly thus, 
And vainly by all other means, he strove 
To mitigate the fever of his heart. 

In dreams, in study, and in ardent thought, 
Thus was he reared; much wanting to as- 
sist 
The growth of intellect, yet gaining more, 
And every moral feeling of his soul 
Strengthened and braced, by breathing in 

content 
The keen, the wholesome, air of poverty, 
And drinking from the well of homely life. 
— But, from past liberty, and tried restraints, 
He now was summoned to select the cours» 
Of humble industry that promised best 
To yield him no unworthy maintenance. 
Urged by his Mother, he essayed to teach 
A village-school — but wandering thoughts 

were then 
A misery to him ; and the Youth resigned 
A task he was unable to perform. 

That stern yet kindly Spirit, who con- 
strains 
The Savoyard to quit his naked rocks. 
The free-born Swiss to leave his narrow 

vales, 
(Spirit attached to regions mountainous 
Like their own steadfast clouds) did now 

impel 
His restless mind to look abroad with hope. 
— .\n irksome drudgery seems it to plod on, 
Through hot and dusty ways, or pelting 

storm, 
-A. vagrant Merchant under a heavy load 
Bent as he moves, and needing frequent 

rest ; 
Yet do such travellers find their own de- 
light ; 
And their hard service, deemed debasing 

now, 
Gained merited respect in simpler times ; 
When squire, and priest, and they who 

round them dwelt 
In rustic sequestration — all dependent 
Upon the Pedler's toil — supplied theif 

wants, 
Or pleased their fancies, with the wares he 

brought. 
Not ignorant was the Youth that still no 

few 
Of his adventurous countrymen were led 
By perseverance in this track of life 
To competence and ease : — to him it offered 
Attractions manifold ; — and this he chose. 



6o2 



THE EXCURSION, 



—His Parents on the enterprise bestowed 
Their farewell benediction, but with hearts 
Forebodintj evil. From his native hills 
He wandered far ; much did he see of men. 
Their manners, their enjoyments, and pur- 
suits, 
Their passions and their feelings ; chiefly 

those 
Essential and eternal in the heart, 
That, 'mid the simpler forms of rural life, 
Exist more simple in their elements, 
And speak a plainer language. In the 

woods, 
A lone Enthusiast, and among the fields, 
Itinerant in this labor, he had passed 
The better portion of his time ; and there 
Spontaneously had his affections thriven 
Amid the bounties of the year, the peace 
And liberty of nature ; there he kept 
In solitude and solitary thought 
His mind in a just equipoise of love. 
Serene it was. unclouded by the cares 
Of ordinary life : unvexed, unvvarped 
By partial bondage. In h;s steady course, 
No piteov.s revolutions had he felt, 
No wild varieties of joy and grief. 
Unoccupied by sorrow of its own, 
His heart lay open ; and, by nature tuned 
And ctmslant disposition of his thoughts 
To sympathy with man, he was alive 
To ail that was enjoyed where'er he went, 
And all that was endured ; for, in himself 
Happy, and quiet in his cheerfulness. 
He had no painful pressure from without 
That made him turn aside from wretched- 
ness 
With coward fears. He could afford to 

suffer 
With those whom he saw suffer. Hence it 

came 
That in our best experience he was rich, 
And in tlie wisdom of our daily life. 
For hence, minutely, in his various rounds, 
He had observed the progress and decay 
Of many minds, of minds and bodies too ; 
The history of many families ; 
How they had prospered ; how they were 

o'erthrown 
By passion or niischance, or such misrule 
'^mong the unthinking masters of the earth 
As makes the nations groan. 

This active course 
He follow&d till provision for his wants 
Had been obtained ; — the Wanderer then 

resolved 
To pass tlie remnant of his days, untasked 
With needless services, from hardship free. 



His calling laid aside, he lived at ease : 
But still he loved to pace the public roads 
And the wild paths ; and, by the summer's 

warmth 
Invited, often would he leave his home 
And journey far, revisiting the scenes 
That to his memory were most endeared. 
— Vigorous in health, of hopeful spirits, ui> 

damped 
By worldly-mindedness or anxious care ; 
Observant, studious, thoughtful, and re 

freshed 
By knowledge gathered up from day to 

day ; 
Thus had he lived a long and innocent life. 

The Scottish Church, both on himself 

and those 
With whom from childhood he grew up, 

had held 
The strong hand of her purity ; and still 
Had watched him with an unrelenting eyf 
This he remembered in his riper age 
With gratitude, and reverential thoughts. 
But by the native vigor of his mind. 
By his habitual wanderings out of doors. 
By loneliness, and goodness, and kind 

works, 
Whate'er, in docile childhood or in youth, 
He had imbibed of fear or darker thought 
Was melted all away ; so true was this. 
That sometimes his religion seemed to me 
Self-taught, as of a dreamer in the woods ; 
Who to the model of his own pure heart 
Shaped his belief, as grace divine inspired, 
And human reason dictated with awe. 
— And surely never did there live on earth 
A man of kindlier nature. The rough 

sports [him ; 

And teasing ways of children vexed not 
Indulgent listener was he to the tongue 
Of garrulous age ; nor did the sick man's 

""tale. 
To his fraternal sympathy addressed, 
Obtain reluctant hearing. 

Plain his garb ; 
Such as might suit a rustic Sire, prepared 
For Sabbath duties ; yet he was a man 
Whom no one could have passed without 

remark. 
Active and nervous was his gait ; his limbs 
And his whole figure breathed intelligence. 
Time had compressed the freshness of his 

cheek 
Into a narrower circle of deep red. 
But had not tamed his eye ; that, under 

brows 



THE excursion: 



603 



Shaggy and gray, had meanings which it 

brought 
From years of youth ; which, hke a Being 

made 
Of many Beings, he had wondrous skill 
Tg blend with knowledge of the years to 

come, 
Human, or such as lie beyond the grave. 



So was He framed ; and such his course 

of life 
Who now, with no appendage but a staff, 
The prized memorial of relinquished toils. 
Upon that cottage-bench reposed his limbs, 
Screened from the sun. Supine the Wan- 
derer lay, 
His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut, 
The shadows of the breezy elms above 
Dappling Ins face. He had not heard the 

sound 
Of my approaching steps, and in the shade 
Unnoticed did I stand some minutes' space. 
At length 1 hailed bun, seeing that his hat 
Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim 
Had newly scooped a running stream. He 

rose, 
And are our lively greeting into peace 
Had settled, *' 'Tis," said I, " a burning 

day '• 
My lips are parched with thirst, but you, it 

seems, 
Have somewhere found relief." He, at the 

word, 
Pointing towards a sweet-briar, bade me 

climb 
The fence where that aspiring shrub looked 

out 
Upon the public way. It was a plot 
Of garden ground run wild, its matted 

weeds 
Marked with the steps of those, whom, as 

they passed, 
The gooseberry trees that shot in long lank 

slips, 
Or currants, hanging from their leafless 

stems 
In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap 
The broken wall. I looked around, and 

there, 
Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder 

boughs 
Joined in a cold damp nook, espied a well 
Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy 

fern. [spot 

My thirst I slaked, and. from the cheerless 
Withdrawing, straightway to the shade re- 

tuined 



Where sate the old Man on the cottage 

bench ; 
And, while, beside him, with uncovered 

head, 
I yet was standing, freely to respire. 
And cool my temples in the fanning air, 
Thus did he speak " 1 see around ms 

here 
Thini^s which you cannot see : we die, my 

Friend, 
Nor we alone, but that which each man 

loved 
And prized in his peculiar nook of earth 
Uies with him, or is changed \ and very 

soon 
Even of the good is no memorial left. 
— The Poets, in their elegies and songs 
Lamenting the departed, call the groves. 
They call upon the hills and streams to 

mourn, 
And senseless rocks ; nor idly , for they 

speak, 
In these their invocations, with a voice 
Obedient to the strong creative power 
Of human passion. Sympathies ther? are 
More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, 
That steal upon the meditative mind, 
And grow with thoughf. Beside yon spring 

I stood. 
And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel 
One sadness, they and I. For them a 

bond 
Of brotherhood is broken • time has been 
When, every day, the touch of human hand 
Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them 

up 
In mortal stillness ; and they ministered 
To human comfort. Stooping down to 

drink. 
Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied 
The useless fragment of a wooden bowl. 
Green with the moss of years, and subject 

only 
To the soft handling of the elements : 
There let it lie — how foolish are such 

thoughts ! 
Forgive them ; — never — never did my steps 
Approach this door but she who dwelt 

within 
A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved 

her first, 

As my own child. Oh, Sir! the good die 
And they whose liearts are dry as sumnr.er 

dust 
Burn to the socket. Many a passenger 
Hath blessed poor Margaret for her gentla 

iooks, 



$04 



THE EXCURSION. 



When she upheld the cool refreshment 

drawn 
From that forsaken spring ; and no one 

came 
But he was welcome ; no one went away 
But that it seemed she loved him. She 

is dead, 
The li2;ht extinguished of her lonely hut, 
The lu'it itself abandoned to decay, 
And she forgotten in the quiet grave. 

I speak," continued he, " of One whose 

stock 
Of virtues bloomed beneath this lowly roof. 
She was a Woman of a steady mind, 
Tender and deep in her excess of love ; 
Not speaking much, pleased rather with the 

joy 
Of her own thoughts : by some especial 

care 
Her temper had been framed, as if to nuike 
A I5jing who by adding love to peace 
Mi^iiit live on earth a life of happiness. 
Her wedded Partner lacked not on his side 
The humble worth that satisfied her heart : 
Frugal, affectionate, sober, and witlial 
Keenly industrious. She with pride would 

tell 
That lit was often seated at his loom. 
In summer, ere the mower was abroad 
Among the dewy grass, — in early spring. 
Ere the last star had vanished. — They who 

passed 
At evening, from behind the garden fence 
Might hear his busy spade, which he would 

ply, 

After his daily work, until the light 

Had failed, and every leaf and flower were 

lost 
In the dark hedges. So their clays were 

spent 
In peace and comfort ; and a pretty boy 
Was their best hope, next to the God in 

heaven. 

Not twenty years ago, but you I tliink 
Can scarcely bear it now in mind, there 

came 
Two blighting seasons, when th.- fields were 

left 
With half a harvest. It pleased Heaven to 

add 
A worse affliction in the plague of war : 
This happy land was stricken to the heart 1 
A Wanderer then among the cottages, 
I, with my freight of winter raiment, saw 
The hardships of that season : many rich 



Sank down, as in a dream, among the poor; 
And of the poor did many cease to be, 
And their place knew them not. Mean 

while, abridged 
Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled 
To numerous self-denials, Margaret 
Went struggling on through those calami 

tous years 
With cheerful hope, until the second au 

tumn, 
When her life's Helpmate on a sick-bed .aj', 
Smitten with perilous fever. In disease 
He lingered long ; and, when his strength 

returned. 
He found the little he had stored, to meet 
Tlie hour of accident or crippling age. 
Was all consumed. A second infant now 
Was added to the troubles of a time 
Laden, for them and all of their degree. 
With care and sorrow : shoals of artii^ans 
From ill-rt quited labor turned adrift 
Sought daily bread from public charity. 
They, and their wives and children — hap- 
pier far 
Could they have lived as do the littL- birds 
That peck along the hedge-rows, or the 

kite 
That makes her dwelling on the mountain 

rocks I 



A sad reverse it was for him who long 
Had filled with plenty, and possessed in 

peace. 
This lonely Cottage. At the door he stood, 
And whistled many ■ snatch of merry tunes 
That had no mirth in them ; or with his 

knife 
Carved uncouth figures on the heads of 

sticks- 
Then, not less idly, sought, through every 

nook 
In house or garden, any casual work 
Of use or ornament ; and with a strange, 
Amusing, yet uneasy, novelty, 
He mingled, where he might the various 

tasks 
Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring. 
But this endured not ; his good humor soon 
Became a weight in which no pleasure was: 
And poverty brought on a petted mood 
And a sore temper : day by day he drooped, 
And he would leave his work — and to the 

town 
Would turn without an errand his slack 

steps ; 
Or wander here and there among the fields 



THE EXCURSTOM 



605 



One while he would speak Ughtly of his 

babes, 
And with a cruel tongue : at other times 
He tossed them with a false unnatural joy ; 
And 'twas a rueful thing to see the looks 
Of the poor innocent children. ' Every 

smile,' 
Said Margaret to me, here beneath these 

trees, 
' Made my heart bleed.' " 

At this the Wanderer paused, 
And, looking up to those enormous elms. 
He said, " 'Tis now the hour of deepest 

noon. 
At this still season of repose and peace, 
This hour when all things which are not at 

rest 
Are cheerful ; while this multitude of flies 
With tuneful hum is filling all the air ; 
Why should a tear be on an old Man's 

cheek ? 
Why should we thus, with an untoward 

mind, 
And in the weakness of humanity. 
From natural wisdom turn our hearts away ; 
To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears ; 
And, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb 
The calm of nature with our restless 

thoughts ? " 

He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone : 
But, when he ended, there was in his face 
Such easy cheerfulness, a look so mild, 
That for a little time it stole away 
All recollection ; and that simple tale 
Passed from my mind like a forgotten 

sound. 
A while on trivial things we held discourse. 
To me soon tasteless. In my own despite, 
I thought of that poor Woman as of one 
Whom I had known and loved. He had 

rehearsed 
Her homely tale with such familiar power, 
With such an active countenance, an eye 
So busy, that the things of which he spake 
Seemed present ; and, attention now re- 
laxed, 
A heartfelt chillness crept along my veins. 
I rose ; and, having left the breezy shade, 
Stood drinking comfort from the warmer 

sun, 
That had not cheered me long — ere, looking 

round 
Upon that tranquil Ruin, I returned, 
And begged of the old Man that, for my 

sake, 
He would resume his story. 



He replied, 
" It were a wantonness, and would demand 
Severe reproof, if we were men whose 

hearts 
Could hold vain dalliance with the misery 
Even of the dead ; contented thence tc 

draw 
A momentary pleasure, never marked 
By reason, barren of all future good. 
But we have known that there is often 

found, 
In mournful thoughts, and always might be 

found, 
A power to virtue friendly ; were't not so, 
I aui a dreamer among men, indeed 
An idle dreamer ! 'Tis a common tale, 
An ordinary sorrow of man's life, 
A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed 
In bodily form. — But without further bid- 
ding 
I will proceed. 

While thus it fared with them, 
To whom this cottage, till those hapless 

years, 
Had been a blessed home, it was my chance 
To travel in a country far remote ; 
And when these lofty elms once more ap- 
peared 
What pleasant expectations lured me on 
O'er the flat Common ! — With quick step I 

reached 
The threshold, lifted with light hand the 

latch ; 
But, when I entered, Margaret looked at 

me 
A little while ; then turned her head away 
Speechless, — and, sitting down upon a 

chair, 
Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do. 
Nor how to speak to her. Poor Wretch I at 

last 
She rose from off her seat, and then,— O 

Sir! 
I cannot tell how she pronounced my 

name : — 
With fervent love, and with a face of grief 
Unutterably helpless, and a look 
That seemed to cling upon me, she en- 
quired 
If I had seen her husband. As she spake 
A strange surprise and fear came to my 

heart, 
Nor had I power to answer ere she told 
That he had disappeared — not two months 

gone. 
He left his house : two wretched days had 
past, 



Oo6 



TFiE excursion: 



n 



And on the third, as wistfully she raised 
Her head from off her pillow, to look forth, 
Like one in trouble, for returning light, 
Within her chamber-casement she espied 
A folded paper, lying as if placed 
To meet her waking eyes. This trem- 
blingly 
She opened — found no writing, but beheld 
Pieces of money carefully enclosed. 
Silver and gold. ' I shuddered at the sight,' 
Said Margaret, ' for 1 knew it was his hand 
That must have placed it there ; and ere 

that day 
Was ended, that long anxious day, I learned 
From one who by my husband had been 

sent 
With the sad news, that he had joined 

a troop 
Of soldiers, going to a distant land. 
• — He left me thus — he could not gather 

heart 
To take a farewell of me ; for he feared 
That I should follow with my babes, and 

sink 
Beneath the misery of that wandering life.' 

This tale did Margaret tell with many 

tears ; 
And, when she ended, I had little power 
To give her comfort, and was glad to take 
Such words of hope from her own mouth as 

served 
To cheer us both. But long we had not 

talked 
Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts, 
And with a brighter eye she looked 

around 
As if she had been shedding tears of joy. 
We parted. — 'Twas the time of early 

spring ; 
I left her busy with her garden tools ; 
And well remember, o'er that fence she 

looked. 
And, while I paced along the foot-way 

path, 
Called out, and sent a blessing after me, 
With tender cheerfulness, and with a voice 
That seemed the very sound of happy 

thoughts. 

I roved o'er many a hill and many a 

dale, 
With my accustomed load ; in heat and 

cold, 
Through many a wood and many an open 

ground. 
In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair, 



Drooping or blithe of heart, as might befall j 
My best companions now the drivin;; winds, 
And now the ' trotting brooks ' and whisper- 
ing trees, 
And now the music of my own sad steps, 
With many a short-lived thought that passed 

between, 
And disappeared. 

I journeyed back this way, 
When, in the warmth of midsummer, the 

wheat 
Was yellow ; and the soft and bladed gra.ss, 
Springing afresh, had o'er the hay-field 

spread 
Its tender verdure. At the door arrived, 
I found that she was absent. In the shade, 
Where now we sit, I waited her return. 
Her cottage, then a cheerful object, wore 
Its customary look, — only, it seemed, 
The honeysuckle, crowding round th 

porch. 
Hung down in heavier tufts ; and that 

bright weed. 
The yellow stone-crop, suffered to take root 
Along the window's edge, profusely grew 
Blinding the lower panes. I turned aside, 
And strolled into her garden. It appeared 
To lag behind the season, and had lost 
Its pride of neatness. Daisy-fiowers and 

thrift 
Had broken their trim borderlines, and 
straggled [or.ce 

O'er paths they used to deck : cr.rnations. 
Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less 
For the peculiar pains they had required. 
Declined their languid heads, wanting sup- 
port. 
The cumbrous bind-weed, with its weraths 

and bells. 
Had twined about her two small rows of 

peas, 
And dragged them to the earth. 

Ere this an hour 
Was wasted. — Back I turned my restless 

steps ; 
A stranger passed ; and, guessing whom I 

sought. 
He said that she was used to ramble far. — 
The sun was sinking in the west ; and now 
I sate with sad impatience. From within 
Her solitary infant cried aloud ; 
Then, like a blast that dies away self- 
stilled. 
The voice was silent. From the bench I 

rose ; 
But neither could divert nor soothe my 
thoughts. 



THE EXCURSION. 



oo: 



The spot, though fair, was very desolate — 
The longer I remained, more desolate 
And, looking round me, now I first ob- 
served 
Tlie corner stones, on either side the porch, 
With dull red stains discolored, and stuck 

o'er 
'.Vith tufts and hairs of wool, as if the 

sheep. 
That fed upon the Common, thither carne 
Familiarly, and found a couching-place 
Even at her threshold. Deeper shadows 

fell 
From these tall elms ; the cottage clock 

struck eight ; — 
I turned, and saw her distant a few steps. 
Her face was pale and thin — her figure, too, 
Was changed. As she unlocked the door, 

she said, 
' It grieves me you have waited here so long. 
But, in good truth, I've wandered much of 

late ; 
And, sometimes — to my shame I speak — 

have need 
Of my best prayers to bring me back again.' 
While on the board she spread our evenmg 

meal, 
She told me — interrupting not the work 
Which gave employment to her listless 

hands — 
That she had parted vvitli her elder chdd j 
To a kind master on a distant farm 
Now happily apprenticed. — ' 1 perceive 
You look at me, and you have cause ; to- 
day 
I have been travelling far ; and many days 
About the fields 1 wander, knowing this 
Only, that what I seek I cannot find ; 
And so I waste my time : for 1 am changed ; 
And to myself,' she said, ' have done much 

wrong, 
And to this helpless infant. I have slept 
Wecpmg. and weeping have i waked; my 

tears 
Have flowed as if my body were not such 
As others are ; and I could I'.ever die. 
Hut I am now in mind and in my heart 
More easy ; and 1 hope,' said she, * that 

Cod 
Will give me patience to endure the things 
Which I behold at home.' 

It would have grieved 
Your very soul to see her. Sir, I fi^el 
The story linger in my heart ; I fear 
'Tis long and tedious ; but my spirit clin[;;s 
To tliat poor woman : —so familiarly i 

Do 1 perceive her manner, and her look, I 



And presence ; and so deeply do I feel 
Her goodness, that, not seldom, in my walks 
A momentary trance comes over me ; 
And to myself I seem to muse on One 
By sorrow laid asleep, or borne away, 
A human being destined to awake 
To human life, or something very near 
To human life, when he shall come again 
For whom she suffered. Yes, it would 

have grieved 
Your very soul to see her • evermore 
Her eyelids drooped, her eyes downward 

were cast ; 
And, when she, at her table, gave me food, 
She did not look at me. Her voice was 

low. 
Her body was subdued. In every act 
Pertaining to her house affairs, appeared 
The careless stillness of a thinking mind 
Self-occupied ; to which all outward things 
Are like an idle matter. Still she sighed, 
But yet no motion of the breast was seen. 
No heaving of the heart. While by the lire 
We sate together, sighs came on my ear, 
I knew not how, and hardly whence they 

came. 

Ere my departure, to her care I gave, 

For her son's use, some tokens of regard. 
Which with a look of welcome she received , 
And I exhorted her to place her trust 
In God's good love, and seek his help by 

prayer 
I took my staff, and, when I kissed her 

bab2. 
The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then 
With the best hope and comfort I could 

give : 
She thanked me for my wish ; — but for my 

hope 
It seemed she did not thank me. 

I returned, 
And took my rounds along this road again 
When on its sunny bank the primrose 

flower 
Peeped forth, to give an earnest of the 

Spring. 
I found her sad and drooping ; she had 

learned 
No tidings of her husband ; if he lived, 
She knew not that he lived; if he were 

dead, [same 

She r.ew not he was dead. She seemed t!u 
In person and appearance ; but her house 
Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence; 
The floor was neither dry nor neat, the 

hearth 



6o8 



THE EXCURSION. 



Was comfortless, and her small lot of books, 
Which, m the cottage window, heretofore 
Had been piled up against tlie corner panes 
In seemly order, now, with straggling leavjs. 
Lay scattered here and there, open or shut, 
As thev had chanced to fall. Her infant 

Babe 
Had from its Mother caught the trick of 

grief, 
And sigiied among its playthings. I with- 
drew, 
And once again entering the garden, saw, 
More plainly still, that poverty and grief 
Were now come nearer to her ; weeds de- 

fac_d 
Tlie hardened soil, and knots of withered 

grass : 
No ridges there appeared of clear black 

mould. 
No winter greenness ; of her herbs and 

flowers, 
It seemed the better part were gnawed away 
Or trampled into earth ; a chain of straw. 
Which had been twined about the slender 

stem 
Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root ; 
The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep. 
—Margaret stood near, her infant in her 

arms. 
And, noting that my eve was on the tree. 
She said, ' I fear it will be dead and gone 
Ere Robert come again.' When to the 

House 
We had returned together, she enc[uired 
If I had any hope:— but for her babe 
And for her little orphan boy, she said. 
She had no wish to live, that she must die 
Of sorrow. Vet I saw the idle loom 
Still in its place; his Sunday garments hung 
Upon the self-same nail ; his very staff 
Stood undisturbed behind the door. 

And when, 
In bleak December, I retraced this way. 
She told me that her little babe was dead, 
And she was left alone. She now, re- 
leased 
From her maternal cares, had taken up 
riie employment common through these 

wilds, and gained, 
l3y spinning hemp, a pittance for herself ; 
Anrl for this end had hired a neighljor's boy 
To give her needful help. That very vime 
Most willingly she put her work aside, 
-And walked with me along the miry road, 
II icdless how far ; and in such piterms sort 
Tliat any heart had ached to hear her, 

begged 



That, wheresoe'er 1 went, I stil! would ask 
For him whom she had lost. We parjeJ 

then — 
Our final parting ; for from that time forth 
Did many seasons pass ere 1 returned 
Into this tract again. 

Nine tedious years ; 
From their first separation, nine long years^ 
-She hngcred in unquiet widowhood; 
A Wife and Widow. Needs must it hava 

been 
A sore heart-wasting ! I have heard, my 

Friend, 
That in yon arbor oftentimes she sate 
Alone, through half the vacant sabbath 

day ; 
And, if a dog passed by, she still would quit 
The shade, and look abroad. On this old 

bench 
F"or hours she sate ; and evermore her eye 
Was busy in the distance, shaping things 
That made her heart beat quick. You see 

that path. 
Now faint — the grass has crept o'er its gray 

line ; 
There, to and fro, she paced through many 

a day 
Of the warm summer, from a belt of liemp 
That girt her w.aist, spinning the long- 
drawn thread 
With backward steps. Yet ever as there 

passed 
A man whose garments showed the soldier's 

red. 
Or cripjilcd mendicant in sailor's garb. 
The little cliild who sate to turn the wheel 
Ceased from li.s task ; and she with falter- 
ing voice 
Made many a fond enquiry ; and when they, 
Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone 

by. 

Her heart was still more sad. And by yon 

gate, 
That bars the traveller's road, she often 

stood, 
And when a stranger horseman came, the 

latch 
Would lift, and in his face look wistfully : 
Most happy, if, from aught discovered there 
Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat 
The same sad question. Meanwhile her 

poor Hut 
Sank to decay ; for he was gone whose 

hand, 
At the first nipping of October frost, 
Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands 

of ktraw 



THE EXCURSlOh'. 



009 



checkered the green-grown thatch. And so 

she lived 
Through the long winter, reckless and alone ; 
Until her house by frost, and thaw, and 

rain, 
Was sapped ; and while she slept, the 

nightly damps 
Did chill her breast ; and in the stormy day 
Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the 

wind. 
Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still 
She loved this wretched spot, nor would for 

worlds 
Have parted hence : and still that length of 

road, 
And this rude bench, one torturing hope en- 
deared, 
Fast rooted at her heart : and here, my 

Friend, — 
In sickness she remained ; and here she 

died : 
Last human tenant of these ruined walls ! " 



The old Man ceased he saw that I was 

moved ; 
From that low bench, rising instinctively, 
I turned aside in weakness, nor had power 
To thank him for the tale which he had 

told. 
I stood, and leaning o'er the garden wall 
Reviewed that Woman's sufferings ; and it 

seemed 
To cmifort me while with a brother's love 
I blessed her in the impotence of grief. 
Then towards the cottage I returned ; and 

traced 
Fondly, though with an interest more mild. 
That secret spirit of humanity 
Which, 'mid the calm oblivious tendencies 
Of nature, 'mid her plants, and weeds, and 

flowers, 
And silent overgrowing, still survived. 
The old Man, noting this, resumed, and said, 
'^'' My Friend 1 enough to sorrow you have 

given, 
I'he purposes of wisdom ask no more : 
Nor more would she have craved as due to 

One 



Who, ir. her worst distress, had ofttimes 

felt 
The unbounded might of prayer ; and 

learned, with soul 
Fixed on the Cross, that consolation 

springs 
From sources deeper far than deepest pain 
For the meek sufferer. Why then should 

we read 
The forms of things with an unworthy e ye ? 
She sleeps in the calm earth, and pcace~Is^ 

here. 
I well remember that those very plumes. 
Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on 

that wall, 
By mist and silent rain-drops silvered p'er, J 
As once I passed, mto my heart conveyed 
So still an image of tranquillity. 
So calm and still, and looked so beautiful 
Amid thv, uneasy thoughts which filled my 

mind, 
That what we feel of sorrow and despair. 
From ruin and from change, and all the 

grief 
That passing shows of Being leave behind, 
Appeared an idle dream, that could main- 
tain. 
Nowhere, dominion o'er the enlightened 

spirit 
\\'hose meditative sympathies repose 
Upon the breast of Faith. I turned away, 
And walked along my road in happiness." 

He ceased. Ere long the sun declinin;^ 

shot 
A slant and mellow radiance, which began 
To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees, 
We sate on that low bench, and now we felt, 
Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming on. 
A linnet warbled from those lofty eln.s, 
A thrush sang loud, and other melodies, 
At distance heard, peopled the milder air. 
The old Man rose, and, with a spright.y 

mien 
Of hopeful preparation, grasped his staff ; 
Together casting then a farewell look 
Upon those silent walls, we left the shade; 
.And, ere tne stars were visible, had reachei 
A village-inn, our evening restmg-pla 



6io 



THE EXCUR^;rON. 



BOOK SECOND. 



THE SOLITARY 



ARGUMENT, 



fhe Author describes his travels with the 
Wanderer, whose cliaracter is further illus- 
trated—Morning scene, and view of a Viilace 
Wake — Wanderer's account of a Friend 
whom lie purposes to visit — View, from an 
sininence, of the Valley which his Friend 
had chosen for his retreat — Sound of singing 
froin below— A funeral procession — Descent 
into the Valley — Observations drawn from 
the Wanderer at sight of a bfiok accidentally 
discoveieH in a lecess in the Valley— Meeting 
with the Wanderer's friend — the Solitary — 
W inderei's description of the mode of burial 
in tins mountainous district — Solitary con- 
trasts with tliis, that of the individual carried 
a few minutes before from the cottage — The 
cottage entered — Description of tlie Soli- 
tary's apartment — Repast there — View, from 
the window, of two mountain summits; and 
the Solitary's description of the companion- 
ship they afford him — Account of the de- 
parted inmate of the cottage— Description 
of a grand spectacle upon the mountains, with 
its effect upon the Solitary's mind — Leave 
the house. 

I In days of yore how fortunately fared 
The Minstrel ! wandering on from hall to 

hall, 
Baronial court or royal ; cheered with gifts 
Munificent, and love, ar.d ladies' praise ; 
Now meeting on his road an armed knight, 
Now resting witli a pilgrim by the side 
Of a clear brook ; — beneath an abbey's roof 
One evening sumptuously lodged ; the next, 
ilumbly in a religious hospital ; 
Or vvitli some merry outlaws of the wood ; 
Or haply shrouded in a hermit's cell. | 

film, sleeping or awake, the robber spared ; i 
He walked — protected from the sword of 

war 
Hy virtue of that sacred instrument 
His harp, suspended at the traveller's side 
His dear companion wheresoe'er he went, 
Opening from land to land an easy way 
^y- melody, and by the charm of verse. 
Yet not the noblest of that honored race 
'^^rew happier, loftier, more impassioned 

thoughts 
From his long journeyings and eventful | 

life, I 



Than this obscure Itinerant had skill 

To gather, ranging through • the tamei 

ground 
Of these our unimaginative days ; 
Both while he trod the earth in humblest 

guise 
Accoutred with his burthen and his staff ; 
And now, when free to move with lighter 

pace. 

What wonder then, if I, whose favorite 
school 
Hath been the fields, the roads, and rural 

lanes, 
Looked on this guide with reverential love? 
Each with the other pleased, we now pur- 
sued 
Our journey, under favorable skies. 
Turn wheresoe'er we would, he was a light 
Unfailing : not a hamlet could we pass, 
Rarely a house, that did not yield to him 
Remembrances ; or from his tongue call 

forth 
Some way-beguiling tale. Nor less regard 
Accompanied those strains of apt discourse 
Which nature's various objects might in- 
spire ; 
And in the silence of his face I read 
His overflowing spirit. Birds and beasts, 
And the mute fish that glances in the stream, 
And harmless reptile coiling in the sun. 
And gorgeous insects hovering in the air, 
The fowl domestic, and the household dog — 
In his capacious mind, he loved them all ; 
Their rights acknowledging he felt for all. 
Oft was occasion given me to perceive 
How the calm pleasures of the pasturing 

herd 
To happy contemplation sootlied his walk ; 
II ow the poor brute's condition, forced to 

run 
Its course of suffering in the public road. 
Sad contrast ! all too often smote his heart 
With unavailing pity. Rich in love 
And sweet humanity, he was, himself. 
To the degree that he desired, beloved. 
Smiles of good-will from faces that he knew 
Greeted us all day long ; we took our seats 
By many a cottage-hearth, where he received 
The welcome of an Inmate from afar, 
And 1 at once forgot I was a Stranger. 



THE EXCURSION. 



6ii 



—Nor was he loth to enter ragojed huts, 
Hilts where liis charity was blest ; his voice 
Heard as the voice of an experienced friend. 
And, sometimes — where tlie poor man held 

dispute 
With his own mind, unable to subdue 
Impatience through inaptness to perceive 
General distress m his particular lot ; 
Or cherishing resentment, or in vain 
Struggling against it ; with a soul perplexed, 
And finding in herself no steady power 
To draw the line of comfort that divides 
Calamity, the chastisement of Heaven, 
From tiie injustice of our brother men — 
To him appeal was made as to a judge ; 
Who, with an understanding heart, allayed 
The perturbation ; listened to the plea ; 
Resolved the dubious point; and sentence 

gave, 
So 2;rounded, so applied, that it was heard 
With softened spirit, even when it con- 
demned. 

Such intercourse I witnessed, while we 

roved, 
Now as his choice directed, now as mine ; 
Or bitli, with equal readiness of will, 
Our course submitting to the changeful 

breeze 
Of accident. But when the rising sun 
Had three times called us to renew our 

walk, 
My Fellow-traveller, with earnest voice, 
As if the thought were but a moment old, 
Claimed absolute dominion for the day. 
We started — and he led me toward the 

hills 
Up through an ample vale, with higher hills 
Before us, mountains stern and desolate ; 
But, in the majesty of distance, now 
Set off, and to our ken appearing fair 
Of aspect, with aerial softness clad, 
.A.nd beautified with morning's purple beams. 

The wealthy, the luxurious, by the stress 
Of business roused, or pleasure, ere their 

time, 
May roll in chariots, or provoke tlie hoofs 
Of the fleet coursers they bestride to raise 
From earth the dust of morning, slow to 

rise ; 
And they, if blest with health and hearts 

at ease, 
Shall lack not their enjovmpnt : — but how 

fnint 
Compared with ours ! who, pacing side by 

side, 



Could, with an eye of leisure, look on all 
That we bclield ; and lend the listening 

sense 
To every grateful sound of earth and air ; 
Pausing at will — our spirits braced, oui! 

thnu-hts 
Pleasant as roses in the thickets blown. 
And pure as dew bathing their crimson 

leaves. 

Mount slowly, sun ! that we may joiuney 

long. 
By this dark hill protected from thy beams ! 
Such is the summer pilgrim's frequent wish ; 
But quickly from among our morning 

thoughts 
'Twas chased away : for, toward the western 

side 
Of the broad vale, casting a casual glance, 
We saw a throng of people; — wherefore 

met? 
Blithe notes of music, suddenly let loose 
On the thrilled ear, and flags uprising, yield 
Prompt answer ; thev proclaim the annual 

Wake, 
Which the bright season favors. — Tabor and 

pipe 
In purpose join to hasten or reprove 
The laggard Rustic ; and repay with boons 
Of merriment a party-colored knot, 
Already formed upon the village-green. 
— Beyond the limits of the shadow cast 
By the broad hill, glistened upon our sight 
That gay assemblage. Round them and 

above. 
Glitter, with dark recesses interposed, 
Casement, and cottage-roof^ and stems of 

trees 
Half-veiled in vapory cloud, the silver steam 
Of dews fast melting on their leafy boughs 
By the strong sunbeams smitten. Like 2 

mast 
Of gold, the Maypole shines ; as if the rays 
Of morning, aided by exhalinsj dew. 
With gladsome influence could re-animate 
The faded garlands dangling from its sides 

Said I, " The music and the sprightly 

scene 
Invite us ; shall we quit our road, and join 
These festive matins .'' " — He replied, " Not 

loth 
To linger I would here with you partake, 
Not one hour merely, but till evening's close^ 
The simple pastimes of the day and place. 
By the fl^^et Kac:rs, ere the sun be set. 
The turl of yon large pasture will bs 

skimmed i 



5l2 



THE EXCURSIOI^. 



There, too, the lusty Wrestlers shall con- 
tend . 
But know we not that he, who intermits 
The appointed task and duties (f the day. 
Untunes full oft, the pleasures of tjie day ; 
Checking tlie fii.er spirits tliat refuse 
To flow, when purposes are lightly chanG;ed ! 
\ length of journey yet remains untraced • 
Let us proceed." Then, pomting with his 

staff 
Raised toward those craggy summits, his 

intent 
He thus imparted . — 

" In a spot that lies 
Among yon mountain fastnesses concealed, 
You will receive, before the hour of noon, 
Good recompense, 1 hope, for this day's toil, 
From sight of One who lives secluded there, 
Lonesome and lost . of whom, and whose 

past life, 
{ Not to forestall such knowledge as may be 
More faithfully c llected from himself) 
This brief communication shall suffice 

Though now sojourning there, he, like 

myself, 
Sprang from a stock of lowly parentage 
Among the wilds of Scotland, in a tract 
Where many a sheltered and well-tended 

plant 
Bears, on the humblest ground of social life, 
Blossoms of piety and innocence. 
Such grateful premises his youth displayed: 
And, iiaving shown in study forward zeal, 
He to the Ministry was duly called ; 
And straight, incited by a curious mind 
Filled with vague hopes, he undertook the 

charge 
Of Chaplain to a military troop 
Cheered by the Highland bagpipe, as they 

marched 
In plaided vest, — his fellow-countrymen. 
This office filling, yet by native power 
And force of native inclination made 
An intellectual ruler in the haunts 
Of social vanity, he walked the world, 
Gay, and affecting graceful gayetv ; 
Lax, buoyant — less a pastor with his flock 
Than a soldier among soldiers — lived and 

roamed 
Where Fortune led —and Fortune, who oft 

proves 
The careless wanderer's friend, to him made 

known 
A blooming Lady — a conspicuous flower. 
Admired for beauty, for her sweetness 

praised ; 



Whom he had sensibility to love, 
Ambition to attempt, and skill to win. 

For this fair Bride, most rich in gifts oi 
mind, 
Nor sparingly endowed with worldly wealth. 
j His office he relinquished; and retired 
I From the world's notice to a rural home 
[ Youth's season yet with him was scarcely 
I past. 

And she was in youth's prime. How free 

their love, 
How full their joy 'Till, pitiable doom ! 
In tlie short course of one undreaded year, 
Death blasted all. Death sudd.jiilv o'crthrew 
Two lovely Children — all that they possessed; 
Tiie Mother followed . — miserably bare 
The one Survivor stood ; he wept, he 

prayed 
For his dismissal, day and night, compelled 
To hold communion with the grave, and 

face 
With pain the regions of eternity 
An uncomplaining apathy displaced 
This anguish ; and. indifferent to delight, 
To aim and purpose, he consumed his days, 
To private interest dead, and public care. 
So lived he ; so he might have died. 

But now. 
To the wide world's astonishment, appeared 
A glorious opening, the unlooked-for dawn. 
That promised everlasting joy to France ! 
Her voice of social transport reached even 

him ! 
He broke from his contracted bounds, re- 
paired 
To the great City, an emporium then 
Of golden expectations, and receiving 
Freights every day from a new world of 
hope. 
i Thither his popular talents he transferred : 
And, from the pulpit, zealously maintained 
'I'he cause of Christ and civil liberty, 
As one, and moving to one glorious end. 
Intoxicating service ! I might say 
A happy service ; for he was sincere 
As vanity and fondness for applause, 
And new and shapeless wishes, would allow. 

That righteous cause (such power hati 
freedom) bound. 
For one hostility, in friendly league, 
Ethereal natures and the worst of slaves ; 
Was served by rival advocates that came 
From regions opposite as heaven and hell. 
One courage seemed to animate them all : 



THE EXCURSION. 



613 



And, from the dazzling conquests daily 

gained 
By their united efforts, there arose 
A proud and most presumptuous confidence 
In the transcendent wisdom of the age, 
And her discernment : not alone in riglits, 
And in the origin and bounds of power 
.Social and temporal ; but in laws divine, 
Deduced by reason, or to laitli revealed. 
An overweening trust was raised ; and fear 
Cast out, alike of person and of thing. 
Plague from this union spread, whose subtle 

" bane 
The strongest did not easily escape ; 
And He, what wonder ! took a mortal taint. 
How shall 1 trace the change, how bear to 

tell 
That he broke faith with them w^om he had 

laid 
In eartli's dark chambers, with a Christian's 

hope ! 
An infidel contempt of holy writ 
Stole by degrees upon his mind ; and hence 
Life, like tliat Roman Janus, double-faced ; 
Vilest hypocrisy — the laughing gay 
Hypocrisy, not leagued with fear, but pride. 
Smooth words he had to wheedle simple 

souls ; 
But, for disciples of the inner school. 
Old freedom was old servitude, and they 
The wisest whose opinions stooped the 

least 
To known restraints ; and who most boldly 

drew 
Hopeful prognostications from a creed 
That, in the liglit of false philosophy. 
Spread like a halo round a misty moon, 
Widening its circle as the storms advance. 

His sacred function was at length re- 
nounced ; 
And every day and every place enjoyed 
The unshackled layman's natural liberty ; 
Speech, manners, morals, all without dis- 
guise. 
I do not wish to wrong him ; though the 

course 
Of private life licentiously displayed 
Unhallowed actions — planted like a crown 
Upon the insolent aspiring brow 
Of spurious notions — worn as open signs 
Of prejudice subdued — still he retained, 
'Mid mucli abasement, what he had re- 
ceived 
From nature, an intense and glowing mind. 
Wherefore, when humbled Liberty grew 
weak. 



And mortal sickness on her face appeared, 
He colored objects to his own desire 
As with a lover's passion. Yet his moods 
Of pain were keen as those of better men, 
Nay keener, as his fortitude was less : 
And he continued, when worse days were 

come. 
To deal about his sparkling eloquence. 
Struggling against the strange reverse with 

zeal 
That showed like happiness. But, in de- 
spite 
Of all this outside bravery, within, 
He neither felt encouragement nor hope- 
For moral dignity, and strength of mind, 
Were wanting ; and simplicity of life ; 
And reverence for himself , and, last and 

best, , 
Confiding thoughts, through love and fear 
of Him [world 

Before whose sight the troubles of this 
Are vain, as billows in a tossing sea. 

The glory of the times fading away — 
The splendor, which had given a festal air 
To self-importance, hallowed it, and veiled 
From his own sight — this gone, he for- 
feited 
All joy in human nature ; was consumed, 
And vexed, and chafed, by levity and scorn, 
And fruitless indignation : galled by pride; 
Made desperate by contempt of men who 

throve 
Before his sight in power or fame, and won, 
Witliout desert, what he desired ; weak 

men. 
Too weak even for his envy or his hate ! 
Tormented tiuis. after a wandering course 
Of discontent, and inwardly opprest 
With malady — in part, 1 tear, provoked 
By weariness of life — he fixed his home. 
Or, ratlier say, sate down by very chance. 
Among these rugged hills ; where now he 

dwells 
And wastes the sad remainder of his hours, 
Steeped in a self-indulging spleen, that wants 

not 
Its own voluptuousness ;— on this resolved, 
With this content, that he will live and die 
Forgotten, — at a safe distance from ' a 

world 
Not moving to his mind." 

These serious words 
Closed the preparatory notices 
That served my Fellow-traveller to beguile 
The way, while we advanced up tiiat vrida 

vale. 



6U 



THE EXCURSION. 



Diverging now (as if his quest had been 
bonie secret of the mountains, cavern, fall 
Of water, or some lofty eminence, 
Renowned for splendid prospect far and 

wide) 
We scaled, without a track to ease our 

steps, 
h. steep ascent ; and readied a dreary 

plain, 
Witii a tumultuous wsste of huge hill tops 
Befoie us ; savage region ! which I paced 
Dispirited : when, all at once, behold ! 
Beneath our feet, a little lowly vab, 
A lowly vale, and yet uplifted high 
Among the mountains ; even as if the spot 
Had been from eldest time by wish of 

theirs 
So placed, to be shut out f»om all the 

world ! 
Urn-like it was in shape, deep as an urn ; 
With rocks encompassed, save tliat to the 

south 
Was one small opening, wlierc a heath-clad 

ridge 
Supplied a boundary less abrupt and close ; 
A quiet treeless nook, with two green 

fields, 
A liquid pool tliat glittered in the sun, 
And one bare dwelling ; one abode, no 

more ! 
It seemed the home of poverty and toil, 
Though not of want : the little fields, made 

green 
By husbandry of many thrifty years. 
Paid cheerful tribute to the moorland 

house. 
—There crows the cock, single in his do- 
main : 
The small birds find in spring no thicket 

there 
To shroud them ; only from the neighbor- 
ing vales 
The cuckoo, straggling up to the hill top^, 
Shouteth faint tidings of some gladder 

place. 

Ah ! what a sweet Recess, thought I, is 
here ! 
Instantly throwing down my limbs at ease 
Upon a bed of heath ; — full many a spot 
Of hidden beauty have I chanced to espy 
Among the mountains ; never one like this ; 
So lonesome, and so j^erfectly secure ; 
Not melancholy — no, for it is green. 
And bright, and fertile, furnished in itself 
With the few needful things that life re- 
quiree. 



— In rugged arms how softly does it lie, 
How tenderly protected ! JFar and near 
We have an image of the pristine earth, 
The planet in its nakedness : were this 
Man's only dwelling, sole appointed seat, 
First, last, and single, in the breaching 

world, 
It could not be more quiet : peace is here 
Or nowhere ; days unruffled by the gale 
Of public news or private ; years that pass 
Forgetfully ; uncalled upon to pay 
The common iiennlties of mortal life, 
Sickness, or accident, or grief, or pain. 

On these and kindred thoughts intent 1 

lay 
In silence musing by my Comrade's side, 
He also silent ; when from out the heart 
Of that profound abyss a solemn voice, 
Or several voices in one solemn sound, 
Was heard ascending ; mournful, deep, and 

slow 
The cadence, as of psalms — a funeird 

dirge ! 
We listened, looking down upon the hut. 
But seeing no one : meanwhile from below 
The strain continued, spiritual as before ; 
And now distinctly could I recognize 
These words : — " Shall tn the grave thy 

lore he known ^ 
III death thy faithfulness V — "Cod rest 

his soul ! " 
Said the old man, abruptly breaking si- 

l:-nco,— 
" He is departed, and finds peace at last !" 

This scarcely spoken, and those holy 

strains 
Not ceasing, forth appeared in view a band 
Of rustic persons, from behind the hut 
Bearing a coffin in the midst, with which 
They shaped their course along the sloping 

side 
Of that small valley, singing as they 

moved : 
A sober company and few, the men 
Hare-headed, and all decently attired ! 
Some steps when they had thus advanced, 

the dirge 
Ended ; and, from the stillness that ensued 
Recovering, to my Friend 1 said, " You 

spake, 
Methought, with apprehension tliat these 

rites 
Are paid to Him upon whose shy retreat 
This day we purposed to intrude." — " i di(< 

so, 



THE EXCURSIO!^. 



615 



But let lis hence, that we may learn the 

truth : 
Perliaps it is not lie but some one else 
For whom this pic us service is performed ; 
Some other tenant of the solitude." 

So, to a steep and difficult descent 
Trusting ourselves, we wound from crag to 

crag, 
Where passage could be won ; and, as the 

last 
Of the mute tram, behind the heathy top 
Of that off-sloping outlet, disappeared, 
1, more impatient in my downward course. 
Had landed upon easy ground ; and there 
Stood waiting for my Comrade. When be- 
hold 
An objjct that enticed my steps aside! 
A narrow, winding, entry opened out 
In. to a platform — that lay, sheepf old-wise, 
Enclosed betwem an upright mass of rock 
And one old moss-grown wall ;— a cool re- 
cess, [wall 
And fanciful ! For where the rock and 
Met in an angle, hung a pentiiouse, framed 
Py thrusting two rude staves into llie wall 
And overlaying them with mountain sods, 
'1 o v;eather-fend a little turf-built scat 
Whcieon a full-grown man might rest, nor 

CI read 
Tlie burning sunshine, or a transient 

shower ; 
Bi't the whole plainly wrought by children's 

hands ! 
Whose skill had thronged the floor with a 

prou 1 show 
Of baby-houses, curiously arranged ; 
Nor wanting ornament of walks between, 
W ith mimic trees inserted in the turf, 
And gardens interposed. Pleased with the 

sight, 
I could not choose but beckon to my Guide, 
Who entering, round him threw a careless 

glance, 
Impatient to pass on, when I exclaimed, 
" Lo ! what IS here? " and, stooping down, 

drew forth 
A book, that, in the midst of stones and 

moss 
And wreck of partj'-colored earthen-ware, 
Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise 
One of those petty structures. " His it 

must be I " 
Exclaimed the Wanderer, " cannot but be 

his. 
And he is gone ! " The book, which in my 

baiKl 



Had opened of itself (for it was swoln 
With searching damp, and seemingly had 

lain 
To the injurious elements exposed 
From week to week,) 1 found to be a work 
In the French tongue, a Novel of Voltaire, 
His famous Optimist " Unhappy Man ! " 
Exclaimed my Friend : " here then has oeei 

to him 
Retreat within retreat, a sheltering-place 
Witiiin how deep a shelter ! He had fits. 
Even to the last, of genuine tenderness, 
And loved the haunts of children : hen , no 

doubt. 
Pleasing and pleased, he shared their simple 

sports. 
Or sate companionless ; and here the book, 
Left and forgotten in his careless way, 
Must by the cottage-children have been 

found : 
Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate 

work ! 
To what odd purpose have the darlings 

turned 
This sad memorial of their hapless friend I " 

" Me," said I, '' most doth it surprise to 

f^nd 
Such book in such a place ! " — '• A book it 

is," 
lie answered, " to the Person suited well, 
Though little suited to surrounding things. 
'Tis strange, 1 grant ; and stranger still had 

been 
To see the man who owned it, dwelling 

here. 
With one poor shepherd, far from all the 

world ! — 
Now, if our errand hath been thrown away, 
As fiom these intimations I forebode. 
Grieved shall i be— less for my sake than 

yours, 
And least of all for him who is no more.'' 

By this, the book was in tiie old Man's 

hand , 
.And he continued, glancing on the leaves 
An eye of scorn . — '' The lover," said h^ 

" doomed 
To love when hope hath failed him — v.hono 

no depth 
Of privacy is deep enough to hide, 
Hath yet his bracelet or his lock of hair, 
And that is joy to him. When cliaiige of 

times 
Hath summoned kings to scafTolds, do bu^ 

give 



ai6 



THE EXCURSION. 



The faithful servant, who must hide his 

head 
Henceforth in whatsoever nook he may, 
A kerchief sprinkled with his master's 

blood, 
And he too hath his comforter. How poor, 
Beyond all poverty how destitute, 
Must that Man have been left, who, hither 

driven, 
Flying or seeking, could yet bring witli him 
No dearer relique, and no better stay, 
Tlian this dull product of a scoffer's pen, 
Impure conceits discharging from a heart 
Hardened with impious pride ! — I did not 

fear [said 

To tax you with this journey ; " — mildly 
Mv venerable Friend, as fortli we stepped 
Into the presence of the cheerful light — 
" For I have knowledge that you do not 

shrink 
From moving spectacles ;— but let us on." 

So speaking, on he went, and at the word 
I followed, till he made a sudden stand : 
For full in view, approaching through a 

gat3 
That opened from the enclosure of green 

fields 
Into the rough uncultivated ground, 
Behold the Man whom he had fancied 

dead ! 
I knew from his deportment, mien, and 

dress. 
That it could be no other ; a pale face, 
A meagre person, tall, and in a garb 
Not rustic — dull and faded like himself ! 
He saw us not, though distant but few 

steps ; 
For he was busy, dealing, from a store 
Upon a broad leaf carried, choicest strings 
Of red ripe currants; gift by which "he 

strove. 
With intermixture of endearing words, 
To soothe a Child, who walked beside him, 

weeping 
As if disconsolate. — " They to the grave 
Are bearing him, my Little-one," he said, 
' To the dark pit ; but he will feel no pain ; 
His body is at rest, his soul in heaven." 

More might have followed — but my 

honored Friend 
Broke in upon the Speaker with a frank 
And cordial greeting. — Vivid was the light 
That flashed and sparkled from the other's 

eves ; 
pe was all fire ; no shadow on his brow I 



Remained, nor sign of sickness on his face. 
Hands joined he with his Visitant, — a 

grasp. 
An eager grasp ; and many moments' 

space — 
When the first glow of pleasure was no 

more, , 

And, of the sad appearance which at once 
Had vanished, much was come and coming 

back— 
An amicable smile retained the life 
Which it had unexpectedly received, 
Upon his hollow clieek. '• How kind,'' he 

said, 
" Ncr could your coming have been better 

timed ; 
For this, you see, is in our narrow world 
A day of sorrow. 1 have here a charge " — 
And speaking thus, he patted tenderly 
The sun-burnt forehead of tlie weeping 

child— 
" A little mourner, whom it is my task 
To comfort; — but how came yc? — if yon 

track 
(Which doth at once befriend us and betray) 
Conducted hither our most welcome i'eet, 
Ye could not miss the funeral train — they 

yet 
Have scarcely disappeared." " This bloom- 
ing Child," 
Said the old Man, '* is of an age to weep 
At any grave or solemn spectacle, 
Inly distressed or overpowered with awe, 
He knows not wherefore ; — but the boy to- 
day 
Perhaps is shedding orphan's tears; you 

also 
Must have sustained a loss." — " The hand 

of i:)cath,'' 
He answered, " has been here ; but could 

not well 
Have fallen more lightly, if it had not 

fallen 
Upon myself." — The other left these 

words 
Unnoticed, thus continuing. — 

" From yon crag^ 
Down whose steep sides we dropped into 

the vale. 
We heard the hymn they sang — a solemn 

sound 
Heard any where ; but in a place like this 
'Tis more than human ! Many precious 

rites 
And customs of our rural ancestry 
Arc qone, or stealing fi^/m us ; this, i 

hope, 



THE EXCURSION. 



617 



Will last forever. Oft on my way have I 
Stood still, though bat a casual passenger, 
So much I felt the awfulness of life, 
In that one moment when the corse is 

lifted 
In silence, with a hush of decency ; 
Then from the threshold moves with song 

of peace, 
/■.nd confidential yearnings, tow'rds its 

home, 
Its final home on earth. What traveller — 

who — 
(How far soe'er a stranger) does not own 
The bond of brotherbiOod, when he sees 

them go, 
A mute procession on the houseless road ; 
Or passing by some single tenement 
Or clustered dwelUngs, where again they 

raise 
The monitory voice ? But most of all 
It touches, it confirms, and elevates. 
Then, when the body, soon to be consigned 
Ashes to ashes, dust bequeathed to dust. 
Is raised from the church-aisle, and forward 

borne 
Upon the shoulders of the next in love, 
The nearest m affection or in blood ; 
Yea, by the very mourners who had knelt 
Beside the coffin, resting on its lid 
In silent grief their unuplifted heads. 
And heard meanwhile the Psalmist's mourn- 
ful plaint. 
And that most awful scripture which de- 
clares 
We shall not sleep, but we shall all be 

changed ! [seen — 

— Have I not seen — ye likewise may have 
Son, husband, brothers — brothers side by 

side. 
And son and father also side by side, 
Rise from that posture :— and in concert 

move. 
On the green turf following the vested 

Priest, 
Four dear supporters of one senseless 

weight, 
From which they do not shrink, and under 

which 
They faint not, but advance towards the 

open grave 
Step after step — together, with their firm 
Unliidden faces : he that suffers most. 
He outwardly, and inwardly perhaps, 
The most serene, with most undaunted 

eve ! — 
Oh ! blest are they who live and die like j 

11 cse, 1 



Loved with such love, and with snch sorrow 

mourned ! '' 
" That poor Man taken hence to-day," re 

plied 
The Solitary, with a faint sarcastic smile 
Which did not please me, " must be deemed 

I fear, 
Of the unblest ; for he will surely sink 
Into his mother earth without such pomp 
Of grief, depart without occasion given 
By him for such array of fortitude. 
Full seventy winters hath he lived, and 

mark ! 
This simple. Child will mourn his one short 

hour, 
-And 1 shall miss him ; scanty tribute ! yet, 
This wanting, he would leave the sight of 

men. 
If love were his sole claim upon their care. 
Like a ripe date which in the deserts falls 
W"ithout a hand to gather it." 

At this 
I interposed, though loth to speak, and 

said, 
" Can it be thus among so small a band 
As ye must needs be liere ? in such a place 
I would not willingly, methinks, lose sight 
Of a departing cloud." — " 'Twas not for 

love," 
Answered the sick Alan with a careless 

voice — 
" That I came hither ; neither have I 

found 
Among associates -.vho have power of 

speech, 
Nor in sucii other converse as is here, 
'i'emptation so prevailing as to change 
That mood, or undermine my first resolve." 
Tiien, speaking in like careless sort, he baid 
To my benign Companion. — " Pity 'tis 
That fortune did not guide you to this 

house 
A few days earlier ; then would you hava 

seen 
What stuff the Dwellers in a solitude 
That seems by Nature hollowed out to be 
The seat and bosom of pure mnocence. 
Are made of ; an ungracious matter this ! 
Which, for truth's sake, yet in remembrance 

too 
Of past discussions with this zealous friend 
And advocate of humble life, I now 
Will force upon his notice ; undeterred 
By the example of his own pure course, 
And that respect and deference which a 

soul 



6i8 



THE EXCURSION. 



May fairly claim, by niggard age enriched 
In what she most doth value, love of God 
And his frail creature Man ; — but ye shall 

hear. 
I talk — and ye are standing in the sun 
Without refresliment ! " 

Qickly had he spoken, 
And, with light steps still quicker than his 

words, 
Led toward the Cottage. Homely was the 

spot; 
And, to my feeling, ere we reached the 

door, 
Had almost a forbidding nakedness ; 
Less fair, I grant, even painfully less fair, 
Than it appeared when from the beetling 

rock 
We had looked down upon it. All within, 
As left by the departed company. 
Was silent ; save the solitary clock 
That on mine ear ticked with a mournful 

sound. — 
Following our Guide, we clomb the cottage- 
stairs 
And reached a small apartment dark and 

low, 
Which was no sooner entered than our 

Host 
Said gayly, "This is my domain, my cell. 
My hermitage, my cabin, what you will — 
1 love it better than a snail his house. 
But now ye shall be feasted with our best.'' 

So, with more ardor than an unripe girl 
Left one day mistress of her mother's 

stoies, 
He went about his hospitr.b'e task. 
My eyes were busy, and my thoughts no 

less, 
And pleased I looked upon my gray-haired 

Friend, 
As if to thank him ; he returned that look, 
♦Jheered, plainly, and yet serious. What a 

wreck 
Had we about us ! scattered was the floor. 
And, in like sort, chair, window-seat, and 

shelf. 
With books, maps, fossils, withered plants 

and flowers, 
And tufts of mountain moss. Mechanic 

tools 
Lay intermixed with scraps of paper, some 
Scribbled with verse : a broken angling-rod 
And shattered telescope, together linked 
By cobwebs, stood within a dusty noni: ; 
And instrumemts of music, some half- 
made- 



Some in disgrace, hung dangling from th4 

walls. 
But speedily the promise was fulfilled; 
A feast before us, and a courteous Host 
Inviting us in glee to sit and eat. 
A napkin, white as foam of that rough 

brook 
By wiiich it had been bleached, o'erspread 

the board ; 
And was itself half-covered with a store 
Of dainties,— oaten bread, curd, cheese, and 

cream ; 
And cakes of butter curiously embossed, 
Butter that had imbibed from meadow- 
flowers 
A golden hue, delicate as their own 
Faintly reflected in a lingering stream. 
Nor lacked, tor more delight on that warm 

day. 
Our table, small parade of garden fruits, 
And whortle-berries from the mountain 

side. 
The Child, who long ere this had stilled his 

sobs. 
Was now a help to his late comforter. 
And moved, a willing Page, as he was bid, 
Ministering to our need. 

In genial mood, 
While at our pastoral banquet thus ue sate 
Fronting the window of that little cell, 
1 could not, ever and anon, forbear 
To glance an upward look on two hug* 

Peaks, 
That from some other vale peered into this. 
" Those lusty twins," exclaimed our liost, 

" if here 
It were your lot to dwell, would soon be- 
come 
Your prized companions. — Many are the 

notes 
Which, in his tuneful course, the wind draws 

forth 
From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and 

dashing shores ; 
And well those lofty brethren bear theii 

part 
In tiie wild concert — chiefly when tht 

stnrm 
Rides high ; then all the upper air they fill 
With roaring sound, that ceases not to 

flow, 
Like smoke, along the level of the blast, 
In mighty current ; theirs, too. is the song 
Of stream and headlong flood that seldom 

fails ; 
And. m the grim and breathless hour of 

noon, 



THE EXCURSION. 



619 



Methinks that 1 have heard them echo 

back 
riie thunder's greeting. Nor have nature's 

laws 
Left them un gifted with a power to yield 
Music of finer tone ; a harmony, 
So do I call it, though it be the hand 
Of silence, though there be no voice ; — the 

clouds. 
The mist, the shadows, light of golden suns, 
Motions of moonlight, all come thither — 

touch. 
And have an answer — thither come, and 

shape 
A language not unwelcome to sick h.-arts 
And idle spirits : — there the sun himself, 
At the calm close of summer's longest day, 
Rests his substantial orb;— between those 

heights 
And on the top of either pinnacle. 
More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue 

vj.ult, 
Sparkle the stars, as of their station proud. 
Thoughts are not busier in the mind of 

man 
Than the mute agents stirring there : — 

alone 
Here do 1 sit and watch." — 

A fall of voice. 
Regretted like the nightingale's last note. 
Had scarcely closed this high-wrought strain 

of raptiM^e 
Ere with inviting smile the Wanderer said : 
" Now for the tale with which you threat- 
ened us ! " 
*' In truth the threat escaped me unawares ; 
Should the tale tire you, let this challenge 

stand [kind. 

For my excuse. Dissevered from man- 
As to your eyes and thoughts we must have 

seemed 
When ye looked dowm upon us from the 

crag. 
Islanders mid a stormy mountain sea. 
We are not so ; — perpetually we touch 
Upon the vulgar ordinances of the world ; 
And he, whom this our cottage hath to-day 
Relinquished, lived dependent for his bread 
Upon the laws of public charity. 
The Housewife, tempted by such slender 

gains 
As might from that occasion be distilled. 
Opened, as she before had done for me. 
Her doors to admit this homeless Pen- 
sioner : 
The portion gav^' of coarse but wholesome 

fare 



Which appeute required — a blind dull 

nook. 
Such as she had, the kennel of his rest ! 
This, in itself not ill, would yet have been 
III borne in earlier life ; but his was now 
The still contentedness of seventy years. 
Calm did he sit under the wide-spread tree 
Of his old age ; and yet less calm and meek, 
Winningly meek or venerably calm. 
Than slow and torpid ; paying in this wise 
A penalty, if penalty it were. 
For spendthrift feats, excesses of his prime. 
1 loved the old Man, for I pitied him! 
A task it was, I own, to hold discourse 
With one so slow in gathering up his 

thoughts, 
But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes ; 
Mild, inoffensive, ready in Jiis way, 
And helpful to his utmost power: and 

there 
Our housewife knew full well what she pos- 
sessed ! 
He was her vassal of all labor, tilled 
Her garden, from the pasture fetched hot 

kine ; 
And, one among the orderly array 
Of hay-makers, beneath the burning sun 
Maintained his place ; or hcedfully pur- 
sued 
His course, on errands bound, to other 

vales. 
Leading sometimes an inexperienced child 
Too young for any profitable task. 
So moved he like a shadow that pcrformeil 
Substantial service. Mark me now, and 

learn 
For what reward ! — The Moon her monthly 

round 
Hath not completed since our dame, tlie 

queen 
Of this one cottage and this lonely dale, 
Into my little sanctuary rushed — 
Voice to a rueful treble humanized. 
And features in deplorable dismay 
I treat the matter lightly, but, alas ! 
It is most serious : persevering rain 
Had fallen in torrents; all the mountain 

tops 
Were hidden, and black vapors coursed their 

sides ; 
This had 1 seen, and saw; but, till she 

spake. 
Was wholly ignorant that my ancient 

Friend — 
Who at her bidding, early and alonr. 
Had cloHib aloft to delve the moorland tui* 
For winter fuel — to his noontide meul 



62 o 



THE EXCURSION. 



Returned not, and now, haply, on the 

hei,a;hts 
Lay at the mercy of this raginc; storm. 
' Inhuman ! ' said 1, ' was an old Man's life 
Not worth the trouble of a thought ? — alas ! 
This notice comes too late.' With joy '1 

saw 
Her husband enter — from a distant vale. 
Wc sallied forth together ; fou-nd the tools 
\Vhich the neglected veteran had dropped, 
But through all quarters looked for him in 

vain. 
We shouted — but no answer ' Darkness 

fell 
Without remission of the blast or shower, 
And fears for our own safety drove us 

home. 

I, who weep little, did, I will confess, 
The moment I was seated here alone. 
Honor my little cell with some few tears 
Which anger and resentment could not dry. 
All night the storm endured ; and, soon as 

help 
Had been collected from the neighboring 

vale, 
With morning we renewed our quest : the 

wind 
Was fallen, the rain abated, but the hills 
Lay shrouded in impenetrable mist ; 
And long and hopelessly we sought in vain : 
'Till chancing on that lofty ridge to pass 
A heap of ruin — almost without walls 
And wholly without roof (the bleached re- 
mains 
Of a small chapel, where, in ancient time. 
The peasants of these lonely valleys used 
To meet for worship on that central heights 
We there espied the object of our search. 
Lying full three parts buried among tufts 
Of heath-plant, under and above him strewn, 
To baffle, as he might, the watery storm : 
And there we found him breathing peace- 
ably. 
Snug as a child that hides itself in sport 
■Mid a green hay-cock in a sunny field. 
We spake — he made reply, but would not 

stir * 

At our entreaty ; less from want of power 
Than apprehension and bewildering 
thoughts. 

So was he lifted gently from the ground. 

And with their freight homeward the shep- 
herds moved 

Through the dull mist, I following — when a 
step, 

A single step, that freed me from the skirts 



Of The blind vapor, op; ned to my view 
Glory beyond all glory ever seen 
By waking sens« or by the dreaming soul ! 
The appearance, instantaneously disc!(jsed. 
Was of a mighty city — boldly say 
A wilderness ^f building, sinking far 
And self-withdrawn into a boundless dept; 
Far sinking into splendor — without end ! 
Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold. 
With alabaster domes, and silver spires, 
And blazing terrace upon terrace, high 
Uplifted ; here, serene pavilions bright. 
In avenues disposed ; there, towers begirt 
With battlements that on their restless 

fronts 
Bore stars — illumination of all gems ! 
By earthly nature had the effect '^been 

wrciught 
Upon the dark materials of the stt rm 
Now pacified : on them, and on the coves 
And mountain-steeps and summits, where- 

unto 
The vapors had receded, taking there 
Their station under a cerulean sky. 
Oh, 'twas an unimaginable sight ! 
Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and 

emerald turf. 
Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire 

sky 
Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed, 
Molten together, and composing thus, 
Each lost in each, that marvellous array 
Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge 
Fantastic pomp of structure without name, 
In fleecy folds voluminous enwrapped. 
Right in the midst, where interspace ap 

peared 
Of open court, an object like a throne 
Under a shining canopy of state 
Stood fixed ; and fixed resemblances were 

seen 
To implements of ordinary use. 
But vast in size, in substance glorified ; 
Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld 
In vision — forms uncouth of mightiest 

power 
For admiration and mysterious awe. 
This little Vale, a dwelling-place rf Man, 
Lay low beneath my feet ; 'twas visible— 
I saw not, but I felt that it was there. 
That which I saw was the revealed abode 
Of Spirits in beatitude : my heart 
Swelled in my breast.—' I have been dead. 

I cried, [live ? 

'And now I live! Oh! wherefore do i 
And with that pang I prayed to be no 

more I 



THE EXCURSION. 



621 



-—But I forget our charge, as vitterly 

I then for2;ot liim ; — there I stood and 
gazed : 

The apparition faded not away, 

And I descended. 

Having reached the house. 

I found its rescued inmate safely lodged, 

And in serene possession of himself, 

Beside a fire whose genial warmth seemed 
met 

By a faint shining from the heart, a gleam 

Of comfort, spread over liis pallid face. 

Great show of joy the housewife made, and 
truly 

Was glad to find her conscience set at ease ; 

And not less glad, for sake of her good 
name, 

That the poor sufferer had escaped with 
life. 

But, though he seemed at first to have re- 
ceived 

No harm, and uncomplaining as before 



Went through his usual tasks, a silcnv 
change 

Soon showed itself : he lingered three short 
weeks ; 

And from the cottage hath been borne to- 
day. 

So ends my dolorous tale, and glad I am 
That it is ended." At these words he 

turned — 
With blithe air of open fellowship, 
Brouglit from the cupboard wine and stouter 

cheer. 
Like one who would be merry. Seeing 

this, 
My gray-haired friend said courteously — 

" Nay, nay, 
You have regaled us as a hermit ought ; 
Now let us forth into the sun ! " — Our 

Host 
Rose, though reluctantly, and forth we 

went. 



BOOK THIRD. 



DESPONDENCY 



ARGUMENT, 

Images m the Valley.— Another Recess in if 
entered and described. — Wanderer's sensa- 
tions. — Solitary's excited by the same objects. 
— Contrast between these. — Despondency of 
the Solitary gently reproved. — fonveisation 
exhibiting the Sohtary's past and present 
opinions and feelings; till he enters upon his 
own History at lengtli. — His domestic feli- 
city. — Afflictions. — Dejection. — Roused by 
the French Revolution. — Disappointment 
and disgust. — Voyage to America. — Disap- 
pointment and disgust pursue him.— His re- 
turn. — His languor and depression of innd, 
from want of faith in the great truths of Re- 
ligion, and want of confidence in the virtue of 
Mankind. 



r, 



A HUMMING BEE — a little tinkling rill — 
A pair of falcons wheeling on the wing. 
In clamorous agitation, round the crest 
Of a tall rock, their airy citadel — 
By each and all of these the pensive ear 
Was greeted, in the silence that ensued, 
When through the cottage threshold we had 

passed. 
And, deep within that lonesome valley 

stood 



Once more beneath the concave of a blue 

And cloudless sky. — Anon exclaimed our 
Host, 

Triumphantly dispersing vnth the taunt 

The shade of discontent which on his brew 

Had gathered, — "Ye have left my c Jl, — 
but see 

How Nature hems you in with friendly 
arms ! 

And by her help ye are my prisoners still. 

But which way shall I lead you i* — how con- 
trive 

In spot so parsimoniously endowed. 

That the brief hours, which yet remain, may 
reap 

Some recompense of knowledge or de- 
light?" 

So saying, round he looked, as if perplexed ; 

And, to remove those doubts, my gray-haired 
Friend 

Said — " Shall we take this pathway for our 
guide ? — 

Upward it winds, as if, in summer heats. 

Its line had first been fashioned bv the 
flock 

Seeking a place of refuge at the root 

Of yon black Yew-tree, whose proiruded 
boughs 

Darken the silver bosom of the crag, 



032 



THE EX cms ION. 



From which she draws her meagre suste- 
nance. 
There in commodious shelter may we rest. 
Or let us trace this streamlet to its source ; 
Feebly it tinkles with an earthly sound, 
And a few steps may bring us to the spot 
Where, h.iply, crowned with flowerets and 

green herbs, 
The mountain infant to the sun comes 

forth, 
Like human life from darkness." — A quick 

turn 
Through a straight passage of encumbered 

ground, 
Proved that such hope war, vain : for now 

we stood 
Shut out from prospect of the open vale, 
And saw the water that composed this rill, 
Descending, disembodied, and diffused 
O'er the smooth surface of an ample crag, 
Lofty, and steep, and naked as a tower. 
All further progress here was barred ; — And 

who, 
Thought I, if master of a vacant hour, 
Here would not linger, willingly detained ' 
\\ hether to such wild objects he were led 
When copious rains have magnified the 

stream 
Into a loud and wliite-robed waterfall, 
Or introduced at this more quiet time. 

Upon a semicirque of turf-clad ground, 
The hidden nnok discovered to our view 
A mass of lock, resembling, as it lay 
Right at th2 foot of tliat moist precipice, 
A stranded ship, with keel upturned, that 

rests 
Fearless of winds and waves. Th;ee several 

stones 
Stood near, of smaller size, and not unlike 
To monumental pillars : and, from these 
Some little space disjoined, a pair were seen, 
That with united shoulders bore aloft 
A fragment, like an altar, flat and smooth : 
Barren the tablet, yet thereon appeared 
A tall and shining holly, that liad found 
A hospitable chink, and stood u]iri^ht, 
As if inserted by some human hand 
In mockerv, to wither in the sun, 
!)r lay its beauty flat before a breeze, 
Tiie first that entered. But no breeze d-d 

now 
Find entrance ; — high or low appeared no 

trace 
Of motion, save the water that desce'de^, 
Diffused adown that barrier of stcej) roc , 
And softly creeping, like a breath of air, 



Such as is sometimes seen, and hardly seerv 

To brush the still breast of a crystal lake. 

" Behold a cabinet for sages built, 
Wliich kings might envy ! " — Praise to this 

effect 
Broke from tlie happy old Man's reverend 

lip; 
Who to the Solitary turned, and said, 
" In sooth, with love's familiar privilege, 
Vou have decried the wealth which is your 

own. 
Among these rocks and stones, methinks, I 

see 
More than the heedless impress that be- 
longs 
To lonely nature's casual work : they bear 
A semblance strange of power intelligent, 
And of design not wholly worn away. 
BoklcNt of plants that ever faced the wind, 
Ilov/ gracefully that slender shrub looks 

forth 
From its fantastic birth-place ! And I own 
Some shadowy intimations haunt me here, 
That in tliese shows a chronicle survives 
Of purposes akin to those of Man. 
But wrought with mightier arm than now 

prevails. 
— Voiceless the stream descends into the 

gulf 
With timid lapse ; — and lo ! while .a this 

strait 
I stand— the chasm of sky above my head 
Is heaven's profoundcst azure ; no domain 
For fickle, shoit lived clouds lo occupy, 
Or to pass through ; but rather an abyss 
In which the everlasting stars abide \, 
And whose soft gloom, and boundless depth, 

mi gilt tempt 
The curious eye to look for them by day. 
— Hail Contemplation I from the stately 

towers, 
Reared by the industrious Jiand of human 

art 
To lift thee high above the misty air 
And turbulence of murmuring cities vast; 
From academic groves, that have for thee 
Been planted, hither come and find a lodge 
To which thou mayst resort for holici 

peace, — 
From whose calm centre thou, through 

height or depth, 
Mayst penetrate, wherever truth shall lead ; 
Measuring through all degrees, until the 

scale 
Of time and conscious nature disappear 
Lost 111 unsearchable eternity !" 



THE EXCURSION. 



623 



A pause ensued ; and with minuter care 
We scanned the various features of the 

scene : 
And soon the Tenant of that lonely vale 
*Vith courteous voice thus spake — 

" I should liave g.ieved 
Her .-after, not escaping self-reproach, 
If from my poor retirement ye had gone 
Leaving this nook unvisited : but, in sooth, 
Vour unexpected j^resence had so roused 
My spirits, that tliey were bent on enter- 

[)rise ; 
And. like an ardent hunter, 1 forgot, 
Or, shall I say ? — disdained, the game that 

lurks [eyes 

At my own door. The shapes before our 
And their arrangement doubtless must be 

deemed 
The sport of Nature, aided by blind Chance 
Kndcly to mock the works ol toiling Man. 
And hence, this upright shaft of unhewn 

stone, 
From Fancy, willing to set ol^ her stores 
By f.oundmg titles, hath acquired the name 
Of Pompey's pillar ; that 1 gravely style 
My Theban obelisk ; and, tlicre, behold 
A Druid Cromlech! — thus I entertain 
The antiquarian humor, and am pleased 
To skim along the surfaces of ihmgs, 
Beguiling harmlessly the listless hours. 
But if the spirit be opi>ressed by sense 
Of mstability, revolt, decay. 
And change, and emptiness, these freaks of 

Nature 
And her blind heljier Chance, do then suffice 
To quicken, and to aggravate — to feed 
Pity and scorn, and melancholy pride, 
Not less than that huge Pile (from some 

abyss 
Of mortal jiower unquestionably sprung) 
Whose hoary diadem of pendent rocks 
Confines the shrill-voiced whirlwind, round 

and round 
F.ddying within its vast circumference. 
On Sarum's naked plain — than pyramid 
Of Fgypt, unsubvertecl, undissolved — 
Or Syria's marble ruins towering high 
Aliovc the sandy desert, in the light 
Of sun or moon. — Forcive me. if 1 say 
'Iliat an appearance wh.ich hath raised j-our 

minds 
To an exalted pitch fthe self-same cause 
Different effect producing) is for me 
Frauglit rather with depression than de- 
light. 
Though shame it were, could 1 not look 

arouna« 



By the reflection of your pleasure, pleased. 
Vet happier in my judgment, even than 

you 
With your bright transports fairly may be 

deemed. 
The wandering Herbalist,— who, clear alike 
From vain, and, that worse evil, vexing 

thoughts, 
Casts, if he ever chance to enter here, 
Upon these uncouth Forms a slight rerard 
Of transitory interest, and peeps round 
For some rare floweret of the hills, or pl.int 
Of craggy iountain ; what he hopes for 

wins. 
Or learns, at least, that 'tis not to be W( n ; 
Then, keen and eager, as a fine-nosed 

hound 
By soul-engrossing instinct driven along 
Through wood or open field, the harmless 

Man 
Departs, intent upon his onward quest ! — 
Nor is that Fellow-wanderer, so deem I, 
Less to be envied, (you may trace him oft, 
By scars which his activity has left 
Besides our roads and pathways, though, 

thank Heaven! 
This covert nook reports not of his hand) 
He who with pocket-hammer smites the 

edge 
Of luckless rock or prominent stone, dis- 
guised 
In weather-stains or crusted o'er by Nature 
With her first growths, detaching by the 

stroke 
A chip or' splinter — to resolve his doubts ; 
And, with tiiat ready answer satisfied, 
The substance classes by some barlwrous 

name, 
And hurries on ; or from the fiagmen;s 

picks 
His specimen, if but haply interveined 
With sparkling mineral, or should crystal 

cube 
Lurk in its Cil's — and thinks himself en- 
riched. 
Wealthier, and doubtless wiser, than be- 
fore ! 
Intrusted safely each to his iMirsuit. 
Farncst alike, let both from hill to hill 
Range ; if it please them, >-pe'jd Ironi clinie 

to clime ; 
The mind is full — and free from pain their 
pastime." 

" Then," said I, interj^osing, " One ic 
n^epr. 
Who cannot but possess in your esteem 



624 



THE EXCURSION. 



Place Worthier still of envy. May I name, 
Without offence, that fair-faced cottage- 
boy? 
Dame Nature's pupil of the lowest form, 
Youngest apprentice in the school of art 1 
Him, as we entered from the open glen, 
You might have noticed, busily engaged. 
Heart, soul, and hands, — in mending the 

defects 
Left in the fabric of a leaky dam 
Raised for enabling this penurious stream 
To turn a slender mill (that new-made play- 

tliing) 
For his delight — the happiest he of all ! " 

" Far happiest,'- answered the desponding 

Man, 
" If, such as now he is, he might remain ! 
Ah 1 what avails imagination high 
Or question deep ? what profits all that 

earth. 
Or heaven's blue vault, is suffered to put 

forth 
Of impulse or allurement, for the Soul 
To quit the beaten track of life, and soar 
Far as she finds a yielding element 
In jjast or future ; far as she can go 
Through time or space — if neitlier in the 

one, 
Nor in the other region, nor in aught 
That Fancy, dreaming o'er tlie map of 

things, 
Hath placed beyond these penetrable 

bounds, [where 

Words of assurance can be heard ; if no- 
A habitation, for consummate good, 
Or for progressive virtue, by the search 
Can be attained, — a better sanctuary 
From doubt and sorrow, than the senseless 

grave ? " 

" Is this," the gray-haired Wanderer 

mildly said, 
*' The voice, which we so lately overheard, 
To tliat same child, addressing tenderly 
The consolations of a hopeful mind .'' 
His body is at rest, his soul in hcavoi.' 
These were your words ; and, verily, mc- 

thinks 
Wisdom is oft-times nearer when we stoop 
Than when we soar."— 

The Other, not displeased, 
Promptly replied — " My notion is the same. 
And I, without reluctance, could decline 
All act of inquisition whence we rise. 
And what, wl;en breath hath ceased, we may 

become 



Here are we, in a bright and breathing 

world. 
Our origin, what matters it ? In lack 
Of wortliier explanation, say at once 
With the American (a thought which suits 
The place where now we stand) ti.at certaia 

men 
Leapt out together from a rocky cave ; 
And these were the first parents of man» 

kind • 
Or, if a different image be recalled 
By the warm sunshine, and the jocund 

voice 
Of insects chirping out their careless lives 
On these soft beds of thyme-besprinkled 

turf, 
Choose, with the gay Athenian, a conceit 
As sound — blithe race ! whose mantles were 

bedecked 
With golden grasshoppers, in sign that tliey 
Had sprung, like those bright creatures, from 

the soil 
Whereon their endless generations dwelt. 
But stop ! — these theoretic fancies jar 
On serious minds : then, as the Hindoos 

draw 
Their holy Ganges from a skiey fount, 
Even so deduce the stream of human life 
From seats of power divine; and hope, or 

trust, 
That our existence winds her stately course 
Beneath the sun, like Ganges, to make part 
Of a living ocean ; or, to sink engulfed, 
Like Niger, in impenetrable sands 
And utter darkness : thought which may be 

faced. 
Though comfortless ! — 

Not of myself I speak ; 
Such acquiescence neither doth imply. 
In me, a meekly-bending spirit soothed 
By natural piety ; nor a lofty mind, 
By philosophic discipline prepared 
For calm subjection to acknowledged law ; 
Pleased to have been, contented not to be. 
Such palms I boast not ; no ! to me, who 

f^nd. 
Reviewing my past way, much to condemn, 
Little to praise, and nothing to regret, 
(Save some remembrance of dream-like 

joys 
That scarcely seem to have belonged to me] 
If I must take my choice between the pair 
That rule alternately the weary hours. 
Night is than day more acceptable : sleep 
Doth, in my estimate of good, appear 
A better state than waking ; death than 

sleep ; 



THE EXCURSION. 



625 



Feelin2;ly sweet is stillness after storm, 
Though under covert of tlie wormy grcuind ! 

Yet be it said, in justice to myself. 
That in more genial tunes, when I was 

free 
To explore the destiny of human kind 
(Not as an intellectual game pursued 
With curious subtilty, from -..-ish to cheat 
Irksome sensations ; but by love of truth 
Ur^ed on, or haply by intense delight 
In feeding thought, wherever thought could 

feed ; 
I did not rank with those (too dull or nice, 
For to my judgment such they then ap- 
peared, 
Or too aspiring, thankless at the best) 
Who, in this frame of human life, perceive 
An object whereunto their souls are tied 
In discontented wedlock ; nor did e'er. 
From me, those dark impervious shades, 

that hang 
Upon the region whither we are bound. 
Exclude a power to enjoy the vital beams 
Of present sunshine.— Deities that float 
On wings, angelic Spirits I I could muse 
O'er what from eldest time we have been 

told 
Of your bright forms and glorious faculties. 
And with the imagination rest content. 
Not wishing more ; repining not to tread 
The little sinuous path of earthly care. 
By flowers embellished, and by springs re- 
freshed. 
— ' Blow winds of autumn ! — let your chil- 
ling breath [strip 
Take the live herbage from the mead, and 
The shady forest of its green attire, — 
And let the burstmg clouds to fury rouse 
The gentle brooks! — Your desolating sway. 
Sheds,' I exclaimed, 'no sadness upon me, 
And no disorder m your rage I find. 
What dignity, what beauty, in this change 
From mild to angry, and from sad to gay, 
Alternate and revolving ! How benign. 
How rich in animation and delight, 
How bountiful these elements — compared 
With aught, as more desirable and fair, 
D jvised by fancy for the golden age ; 
Or the perpetual warbling that prevails 
In Arcady, beneath unaltered skies, 
^Through the long year in constant quiet 

bound. 
Night hushed as night, and day serene as 

day " 
—But why this tedious record ? — Age, we 
imow, 



Is garrulous ; and solitude is apt 
To anticipate the privilege of Age. 
From far ye come ; and surely with a hope 
Of better entertainment : — let us hence 1 '' 

Loth to forsake the spot, and still more 

loth 
To be diverted from our present theme, 
I said, " My thoughts, agreeing, Sir, with 

yours. 
Would push this censure farther ; — for, if 

smiles 
Of scornful pity be the just reward 
Of Poesy thus courteously employed 
In framing models to improve the scheme 
Of Man's existence, and recast the world. 
Why should not grave Philosophy be styled, 
Herself, a dreamer of a kindred stock. 
A dreamer yet more spiritless and dull ? 
Yes, shall the fine immunities she boasts 
Establish sounder titles of esteem 
For her, who (all too timid and reserved 
For onset, for resistance too inert. 
Too weak for suffering, and for hope too 

tame) 
Placed, ai»ong flowery gardens curtained 

round 
With world-excluding groves, the brother- 
hood 
Of soft Epicureans, taught — if they 
The ends of being would secure, and win 
The crown of wisdom — to yield up their 

souls 
To a voluptuous unconcern, preferring 
Tranquillity to all things. Or is she," 
I cried, " Rlore worthy of regard, the Power 
Who, for the pake of sterner quiet, closed 
The Stoic's heart against the vain approach 
Of admiration, and all sense of joy ?" 

His countenance gave notice that my zeal 
Accorded little with his present mind ; 
1 ceased, and he resumed. — " Ah ! gentle 

Sir, 
Slight, if you will, the means ; but spare tc 

slight 
The ettd of those, who did, by system, ranl<, 
As the prime object of a wise man's aim, 
Security from shock of accident, 
Release from fear ; and cherished peaceful 

days 
For their own sakes, as mortal life's chief 

good. 
And only reasonable felicity. 
What motive drew, what impulse, I wouLl 

ask, 
Through a long course of later ages, drove 
The hermit to his cell in forest wide ; 



626 



THE EX CURS f ON-. 



Or what d tained him, till his closing; eyes 
Took their last farewell of the s\in and 

stars, 
Fast anchored in the desert ? — Not alone 
Dread of the persecuting sword, remorse, 
Wrongs unredr:;ssed, or insults unavenged 
And unavengeable, defeated pride, 
Prosperity subverted, maddening want, 
Friendship betrayed, affection unreturned, 
Love with despair, or gtief in agony ; — 
Nut always from intolerable pangs 
He fled ; but, compassed round by pleasure, 

sighed 
For independent happine?s ; craving peace, 
The central feeling of all happiness. 
Not as a refuge from distress or pain, 
A breathing-time, vacation, or a truce. 
But for its absolute self ; a life of peace. 
Stability without regret or fear ; 
That hath been, is, and shall be evermore ! — 
Such the reward he sought; and wore out 

life, 
There, where on few external things his 

heart 
Was set, and those his own ; or, if not his, 
Subsisting under nature's steadfast law. 

What other yearning was the master tie 
Of the monastic brotherhood, upon rock 
Aerial, or in green secluded vale, 
One after one, collected from afar. 
An undissolving fcilowship ? — What but 

this. 
The universal instinct of repose, 
The longing for confirmed tranquillity, 
Inward and outward ; humble, yet sublime : 
The life where hope and memory are as 

one ; 
Where earth is quiet and her face unchanged 
Save by the simplest toil of human hands 
Or seasons' difference ; the immortal Soul 
Consistent in self-rule ; and heaven revealed 
To meditation in that quietness ! — 
Such was their scheme : and though the 

wished-for end 
By multitudes was missed, perhaps attained 
By none, they for the attempt, and pains 

employed, 
Do, in my present censure, stand redeemed 
From the unqualified disdain that once 
Vv^ould have been cast upon them by my 

voice 
Delivering her decisions from the sent 
Of lorward youth — that scruples not to solve 
Doubts, and determine questions, by the 

rules 
Of inexperienced judgment, ever prone 



To overweening faith ; and is inflamed. 
By courage, to demand from real life 
The test of act and suffering, to provoke 
Hostility — how dreadful when ir comes, 
Whether affliction be the foe, or guilt ! 

A child of earth, I rested, in tliat stage 
Of my past course to which these thoughts 

advert. 
Upon earth's native energies ; forgetting 
Tliat mine was a condition which required 
Nor energy, nor fortitude — a calm 
Without vicissitude ; which, if the like 
Had been presented to my view elsewhere, 
1 might have even been tempted to despi'je. 
But no — for the serene was also bright ; 
Enlivened happiness with joy o'erflowing, 
With joy, and — oh ! that memory should 

survive [boon, 

To speak the word — with rapture ! Nature's 
Life's genuine inspiration, happiness 
Above what rules can teach, or fancy feign ; 
Abused, as all possessions f7r<? abused 
That are not prized according to their worth. 
And yet, what worth ? what good is given 

to men, 
More solid than the gilded clouds of heaven ? 
What joy more lasting than a vernal flower ? 
None ! 'tis the general plaint of human kind 
In solitude : and mutually addressed 
From each to all, for wisdom's sake : — This 

truth 
Tlie priest announces from his holy seat : 
And, crowned with garlands in the summer 

grove. 
The poet fits it to his pensive lyre. 
Yet, ere that final resting-place be gained, 
wSharp contradictions may arise, by doom 
Of this same life, compelling us to grieve 
That the prosperities of love and joy 
Should be permitted, oft-times, to endure 
."^o long, and be at once cast down forever. 
Oh! tremble, ye, to wiiom hath been as- 
signed 
A course of days composing happy months, 
And they as happy years ; the present still 
So like the past, and both so firm a pledge 
Of a congenial future, that the wheels 
Of pleasure move without the aid of hope : 
For Mutnbilitv is Nature's bane ; 
And slighted Hope ivill be avenged ; and 

when 
Ye need her favors, ye shall find her not ; 
But in her stead — fear — doubt — and agony I' 
This was the bitter language of the heart*. 
But, wliile he spake, Jook, gesture, tone ol 

voice, 



THE EXCURSION. 



627 



Though discomposed and vehement, were 

such 
As skill and graceful nature might suggest 
To a proficient of the tragic scine 
Standing before the multitude, beset 
With dark events. Desirous to divert 
Or stem the current of the speaker's 

thoughts, 
We signiified a wish to leave that place 
Of stillness and close privacy, a nook 
That seemed for self-examination made ; 
Or for confession, in the sinner's need, 
Hidden from all men's view. To our at- 
tempt 
He yielded not ; but, pointing to a slope 
Of mossy turf defended from the sun. 
And on that couch inviting us to rest, 
Full on that tender-lieartecl Man he turned 
A serious eye, and his speech thus renewed. 

" You never saw, your eyes did never look 
On the bright form of Her whom once 1 

loved : — 
Her silver voice was heard upon the earth, 
A sound unknown to you ; else, honored 

Friend ! 
Your heart had borne a pitiablt- <^hare 
Of what I suffered, when I wept that loss. 
And suffer now, not seldom, from the 

thought 
That I remember, and can weep no more. — 
Stripped as I am of all the golden fruit 
Of self esteem ; and by the cutting blasts 
Of self-reproach familiarlv assailed ; 
Yet would I not be of such wintry bareness 
But that son)e leaf of your regard should 

hang 
Upon my naked branches: — lively thoughts 
Give birth, full often, to unguarded words ; 
I grieve that, in your presence, from my 

tongue 
Too much of frailty hath alreadv dropped ; 
But that too much demands still more. 

You know, 
Revered Compatriot — and to you, kind Sir, 
(Not to be deemed a stranger, as ycu come 
Following the guidance of these welcome 

feet 
To our secluded vale) it may be told — 
That my demerits did not sue in vain 
To One on whose mild radiance manv gazed 
With hope, and all with pleasure. This fair 

Bride— 
In the devotedness of youthful love. 
Preferring me to jiarents, and the clioir 
Of fjav companions, to the natal roof, 

And all known places and familiar sights 



(Resigned with sadness gently weighing 

down 
Her trembling expectations, but no more 
Than did to lier due honor, and to me 
Yielded, that day, a confidence sublime 
In what I had to build upon) — this Bride, 
Young, modest, meek, and beautiful, 1 led 
To a low cottage in a sunny bay. 
Where the salt sea innocuously breaks, 
And the sea breeze as innocently breathes, 
On Devon's leafy shores ; — a sheltered hold, 
In a soft clime encouraging the soil 
To a luxuriant bounty ! — As our steps 
Approach the embowered abode — our chosen 

seat — 
See, rooted in the earth, her kindly bed. 
The unendangered myrtle, decked with 

flowers. 
Before the threshold stands to welcome us I 
While, in the flowering myrtle's neighbor- 
hood. 
Not overlooked but courting no regard, 
Those native plants, the holly and the yew, 
Gave modest intimation to the mind 
How willingly their aid they would unite 
With the green mvrtle, to endear the hours 
Of winter, and protect that pleasant })lace. 
— Wild were the walks upon those Ion Jy 

Do'.vn<^, [woin 

Track Laamg into track ; how marked, how 
Into bright verdure, between fern and gorse, 
Winding away its never ending line 
On their smooth surface, evidence was none: 
But, there, lay open to our daily haunt, 
A range of unappropriated earth, 
Whce youth's ambitious feet might move at 

large ; 
Whence, unmolested wanderers, we beheld 
The shining giver of the day diffuse 
Hi-, brightness o'er a tract of sea and land 
Gay as our spirits, free as our desires ; 
As our enjoyments, boundless. — From those 

heights 
We dropped, at pleasure, into sylvan combs 
Where arbors of impenetrable shade, 
.And mossy seats, detained us side by side, 
With hearts at ease, and knowledge in oui 

hearts 
' That all the grove and all the diy v/as 

ours.' 

O happy time ! still happier was at hand: 
For Nature called my Partner to resign 
Her share in the pure freedom of that life, 
F.njovod by us in common. — To my hope, 
To mv heart's wish, my tender Mate be- 
came 



62S 



THE EXCURSION. 



The tliankful captive of maternal bonds ; 
And those wild paths were left to me alone. 
There could I meditate on follies past ; 
And, like a weary voyager escaped 
From risk and hardship, inwardly retrace 
A course of vain delights and thoughtless 

guilt, 
A.nd self-indulgence — without shame pur- 
sued. 
There, undisturbed, could think of and could 

thank 
Her whose submissive power was to me 
Rule and restraint— my guardian— shall I 

say 
That earthly Providence, whose guiding 

love 
Within a port of rest had lodged me safe; 
Saf; from temptation, and from danger far? 
Strains followed of acknowledgment ad- 
dressed 
To an Authority enthroned above 
The reach of sight ; from whom, as from 

their source, 
Proceed all visible ministers of good 
That walk the earth— Father of heaven and 

earth. 
Father, and king, and judge, adored and 

feared ! 
These acts of mind, and memory, and heart, 
And spirit — interrupted and relieved 
Bvobservat'ons transient as the glance 
Of flynig sunbeams, or to the outward form 
Cleaving with power inherent and intense, 
As the mute insect fixed upon the plant 
On whose soft leaves it hangs, and from 

whose cup 
It draws its nourishment imperceptibly — 
Endeared my wanderings ; and the mother's 

kiss 
And infant's smile awaited my return. 

In privacy we dwelt, a wedded pair, 
Companions daily, often all day long ; 
Not placed by fortune within easy reach 
Of various intercourse, nor wishing aught 
Beyond the allowance of our own fire-side, 
The twain within our happy cottage born, 
Inmiites and heirs of our united love; 
Graced mutually by difference of sex, 
And with no wider interval of time 
Between their several births than served for 

one 
To fcstabhsh something of a leader's sway ; 
Yet left them joined bv sympatliy in age ; 
Equals in pk-asure, fellows m pursuit. 
On these two pillars rested as in air 
Our solitude. 



It sooths me to perceive, 
Your courtesy withliolcLs not fromniv words 
Attentive audience. But, oh ! gentle Friends, 
As times of quiet and unbroken peace, 
Though, for a nation, times of blessedness, 
Give back faint echoes from the historian's 

page ; 
So, in the imperfect sounds of this discourse, 
Depressed I hear how faithless is the voice 
Which those most blissful days reverberate. 
What special record can, or need, be given 
To rules and habits, whereby much was 

done, 
Rut all within the sphere of little things ; 
Of humble, though, to us, important cares, 
And precious interests? Smoothly did our 

life 
Advance, swerving not from the path pre- 
scribed ; 
Her annual, her diurnal, round alike 
Maintained with faithful care. And you 

divine 
The worst effects that our condition saw 
If you imagine changes slowly wrought. 
And in their progress unperceivable ; 
Not wished for ; sometimes noticed with a 

sigh, 
(Whate'er of good or lovely they might 

bring) 
Sighs of regret, for the familiar good 
And loveliness endeared which tliey re- 
moved. 
Seven years of occupation undisturbed 
Established seemingly a right to hold 
That happiness ; and use and habit gave 
To what an alien spirit had acquired 
A patrimonial sanctity. And thus, 
With thoughts and wishes bounded to this 

world, 
I lived and breathed ; most grateful — if to 

enjoy 
Without repining or desire for more, 
For different lot, or change to higher 

sphere, 
(Only except some impulses of pride 
With no determined object, thou-:;]! rpheld 
By theories with suitable support) — 
Most grateful, if in such wise to enjoy 
Be proof of gratitude for what we have ; 
Else, I allow, most thankless, — But, at once, 
From some dark seat of fatal power was 

urged 
A claim that shattered all. — Our blooming 

girl. 
Caught in the gripe of death, with such brid 

time 
To struggle in as scarcely would allow 



THE EXCURSION. 



C29 



Her cheek to change its color, was conveyed 
From us to inaccessible worlds, to regions 
Where height, or depth, admits not the ap- 
proach 
Of living man, though longing to pursuL-. 
—With even as brief a v^'arning — and how 

soon, 
With what short interval of time between, 
I tremble yet to think of — our last prop. 
Our happy life's only remaining stay — 
The biother followed ; and was seen no 
more ! 

Calm as a frozen ...ke when ruthless winds 
Filow fiercely, aguaiing earin and sky. 
The Mother now remained ; as if in her, 
Who, to the lowest region of the soul. 
Had been erewliile unsettled and disturbed, 
This second visitation had no power 
To shake ; but only to bind up and seal ; 
And to establish thankfulness of heart 
In Heaven's determinations, ever just. 
The eminence w.iereon her spirit stood, 
Mine was unable to attain. Immense 
The space that severed u.^. But, as the 

sight 
Communicates with heaven's ethereal orbs 
Incalculably distant ; so, I felt 
That consolation may descend from far 
(And that is intercourse, and union, too,) < 
While, overcome with speechless gratitude. 
And, with a holier love inspired, I looked 
On her — at once superior to my woes 
And partner of my loss. — O heavy change ! 
Dimness o'er this clear luminary crept 
Insensibly ; the immortal and divine 
Yielded to mortal reflux ; her pure glory, 
As from the pinnacle of worldly state 
Wretched ambition drops astounded, fell 
Into a gulf obscure of silent grief. 
And keen heart-anguish —of itself ashamed, 
Yet obstinately cherisliing itself ; 
And, so consumed, she melted from my 

arms ; 
And left me, on this earth, disconsolate ! 

What followed cannot be reviewed in 

thoHght ;. 
Much less, retraced in words. If she, of 

life 
Blameless, so intimate with love and joy 
And all the tender motions of the soul, 
fhid been supplanted, could I hope tr» 

stand — 
Inh;m. dependent, and now destitute .'' 
I called on dreams and visions, to disclose 
Ihat wliich is veiled from waking thought ; 

conjured 



Eternity, as men constrain a ghost 

To appear and answer ; to the grave I spake 

Imploringly ; — looked up, and asked the 

Heavens 
If Angels traversed their cerulean floors. 
If fixed or wandering star could tidmgi 

yield 
Of tl-ie departed spirit — what abode 
It occupies — what consciousness retains 
Of former loves and interests. Then rr.:« 

soul 
Turned inward, — to examine of what stuff 
Time's fetters are composed ; and lite was 

put 
To inquisition, long and profitless ! 
By pain of heart — now checked — and now 

impelled— 
The intellectual power, through words ?nd 

things, 
Went sounding on, a dim ar'd perilous way! 
And from those transports, and these toUfi 

abstruse. 
Seme trace am I enabled to retain 
Of time, else lost ; — existing unto me 
Only by records in myself not found. 

From *hat abstraction I was roused,— and 

how ? 
Even as a thoughtful shepherd by a flash 
Of lightning startled in a gloomy cave 
Of tliese wild hills. For, lo! the dread 

Bastile, 
With all the chambers in its horrid towers, 
Fell to the ground : — by violence over- 
thrown 
Of indignation ; and with shouts that 

drowned 
The crash it made in falling. From the 

wreck 
A golden palace rose, or seemed to rise, 
TliC appointed seat of equital:)le law 
And mild paternal sway. The potent shocl< 
I felt : the transformation I perceived. 
As marvellously seized as in that moment 
When, from the blind mist issuing, 1 be 

held 
Glory — beyond all glory ever seen, 
Confusion infinite of heaven and earth. 
Dazzling the soul. Meanwhile, prophetic 

harps 
In every grove were ringing, ' War hlialJ 

cease ; 
Did ye not hear that conquest is abjured .'' 
Bring garlands, bring forth choicest flowers, 

to deck 
The tree of Liberty.' — My heart rebounded' 
My melancholy voice the chorus joined; 



r,3o 



THE EXCURSION. 



— ' Be joyful all ye nations ; in all lands, 
Ye that are capable of joy be glad ! 
Henceforth, whate'er is wanting to your- 
selves 
In others ye shall promptly find ; and all, 
Knnched by mutual and reflected wealtii, 
Shall with one lieart honor their common 
kind.' 

Thus was I reconverted to the world ; 
Society became my glittering bride, 
And airy hopes my children. — From the 

depths 
Of natural passion, seemingly escaped, 
My soul diffused herself in wide embrace 
Of institutions, and the forms of things ; 
As they exist, in mutable array, 
Upon life's surface. What, tliough in my 

veins 
There flov'^ed no Gallic blood, nor had I 

breathed 
The air of France, not less than Gallic zeal 
Kindled and burnt among the sapless twigs 
Of my exhausted heart. ]f busy men 
In sober conclave met, to weave a web 
Of amity, whose living threads should 

stretch 
Beyond the seas, and to the farthest pole. 
There did I sit, assisting. If, with noise 
.^nd acclamation, crowds in open air 
Expressed the tumult of their minds, my 

voice 
There mingled, heard or not. The powers 

of song 
I left not uninvoked ; and, in still groves. 
Where mild enthusiasts tuned a pensive 

lay 
Of thanks and expectation, in accord 
Witli their belief, I sang Satuvnian rule 
Returned,— a progeny of golden years 
Permitted to descend, and bless mankind. 
— With promises tlie Hebrew Scriptures 

teem : 
I felt their mvitation ; and resumed 
A long-suspended office in the House 
Of pui)lic worship, where, the glowing phrase 
Of ancient inspiration serving me, 
1 i^romised also, — with undaunted trust 
Fc.retold, and added prayer to prophecy ; 
The admiration winning of the crowd ; 
The help desiring of the pure devout. 

Scorn and contempt forbid me to pro- 
ceed 1 
But History, time's slavish scribe, will tell 
How rapidly the zealots of the cause 
Disbanded — or in hostile ranks ajopeared ; 



Some, tired of honest service ; thsse, out 

done. 
Disgusted therefore, or appalled, by aims 
Of fiercer zealots— -so confusion reigned, 
And the more faithful were compelled to 

exclaim. 
As Brutus did to Virtue, ' Liberty, 
I worshipped thee, and find thee but a 

Shade!' 

Such recantation hi.d for me no charm. 
Nor would 1 bend to it ; who should have 

grieved 
At aught, however fair, that bore the mien 
Of a conclusion, or catastrophe. 
Why then conceal, that, when the simply 

good 
In timid selfishness withdrew, I sought 
Other sr.pport, not scrupulous whence it 

came ; 
And, by what compromise it stood, not 

nice? 
Enough if notions seemed to be high- 
pitched, 
And cjualities determined. — Among men 
So charactered did I maintain a strife 
Hopeless, and still more hopeless every 

hour ; 
But, in the process, I bcgr.n to feel 
That, if the emancipation of the world 
Were missed, I should at least secure my 

own , 
And b3 in part compensated. For rights. 
Widely — invetcrately \isurped upon, 
I spake with vehemence ; and promptly 

seized 
All that Abstraction furnished for my 

needs 
Or purposes ; nor scrupled to proclaim, 
And propagate, by liberty of l.fc. 
Those new persuasions. Not that I re- 
joiced. 
Or even found pleasure, in such vagrant 

course, 
For its own sake ; but farthest from the 

walk ' 
Which I had trod in happiness and peace, 
Was most inviting to a troubled mind ; 
That, in a struggling and distempered 

world. 
Saw a seductive image of herself. 
Yet, mark the contradictions of which Man 
Is still the sport! Here Nature was mj 

guide. 
The Nature of the dissolute; but thee, 
O fostering Nature ! I rejected — smiled 
.At others' tears in pity ; and in scorn 



THE EXCURSION. 



63 « 



At those which thy soft influence sometimes 

drew 
From my unguarded heart. — The tranquil 

shores 
Of Britain cfrcumscribed me ; else, perhaps 
I might have been entangled among deeds, 
Which, now, as infamous, I should abhor — 
Despise, as senseless ; for my spirit relished 
Strangely the exasperation of that Lan.l, 
Which turned an angry beak agauist the 

down 
Of h-r own breast ; confounded into hope 
Of disencumbering thus her fretful wings. 

But all was quieted by iron bonds 
Of military sway. The shiftmg aims, 
Tlie moral interests, the creative niight, 
The varied functions and high attributes 
Of civil action, yielded to a power 
Formal, and odious, and contemptible 
— In Britain, ruled a panic dread of change , 
The weak were praised, rewarded, and ad- 
vanced ; 
And, from the impulse of a just disdain, 
Once more did 1 retire into myself. 
Tliere feeling no contentment, I resolved 
To fly, for safeguard, to some foreign shore. 
Remote from Europe ; from her blasted 

liopes. 
Her fields of carnage, and polluted air 

Fresh blew the wind, when o'er the At- 
lantic Main 
The ship went gliding witli her thoughtless 

crew ; 
And who among them but an Exile, freed 
From discontent, indifferent, pleased to sit 
Among tlie busily-employed, not more 
With obligation cliarged, with service taxed, 
Th^n tlie loose pendant — to tiie idle wind 
Upon the tall mast streaming. But, yc 

Powers 
Of soul and sense mysteriously allied, 
O, never let the Wretched, if a ch.oice 
Be left him, trust the freight of his distress 
To a long voyage on the silent deep ! 
For, like a plague, will memory break out ; 
And, in the blank and solitude of things. 
Upon his spirit, with a fever's strength. 
Will conscience pray. — Feebly must they 

have felt 
Who, in old time, attired with snakes and 

whips 
The vengeful Furies Beautiful regards 
Were turned on me — the face of her I loved ; 
The Wife and Mother pitifully lixmg 
Tender reproaches, insupportable ! 



Where now that boasted liberty t No wel- 
come [those 
From unknown objects I received ; and 
Known and familiar, which the vaulted sky 
Did, in the placid clearness of the night, 
Disclose, had accusations to prefer 
Against my peace. Witiiin the cabin stood 
That volume— as a compass for the soul — 
Revered among the nations. 1 implored 
Its guidance; but the infallible support 
Of faith was wanting. Tell me, why refused 
To One by storms annoyed and adverse 

winds ; 
Perplexed with currents ; of his weakness 

sick ; 
Of vain endeavors tired ; and by his own, 
And by his nature's, ignorance dismayed! 

Long-wished for sight, the Western World 

appeared ; 
And, wlien the ship was moored, I leai^ed 

ashore 
Indignantly — resolvfed to be a man. 
Who, having o'er the past no power, would 

live 
No longer in subjection to the past. 
With abject miiul — from a tyrannic lord 
Inviting penance, fruitlessly endured: 
So, like a fugitive, wliose feet have cleared 
Some boundary, which his followers may not 

cross 
In prosecution of their deadly chase. 
Respiring I k,oked round.— How bright the 

sun. 
The breeze how soft ! Can anything pro- 
duced 
In the whole world compare, thought I, for 

power 
And majesty with this gigantic stream, 
Sprung from t!ie desert.'' /Vnd beliold a city 
Fresh, youthful, and aspiring ! What are 

these 
To me, or I to them ? As much at least 
As he desires that they should be, whom 

winds 
And waves have wafted to this distant shore. 
In the condition of a damaged seed, 
Wliose fibres cannot, if they would, take root. 
Here may I roam at large;— my business is, 
Roaming at large, to observe, and not to feel 
And, therefore, not to act — convinced that 

all 
Which bears the name of action, howsoe'er 
Beginning, ends in servitude — still painful, 
And mostly profitless. And, sooth to say 
On nearer view, a motley spectacle 
Appeared, of high pretensions — uureproved 



t$i 



THE EXCURSION. 



But by the obstreperous voice of higher still ; 
Big passion strutting on a petty stage ; 
Which a detached spectator may regard 
Not unamused, — But ridicule demands 
Quick change of objects ; and, to laugh alone, 
At a composing distance from the haunts 
Of strife and folly, though it be a treat 
\s choice as musing Leisure can bestow ; 
Vet, in the very centre of the crowd, 
To keep the secret of a poignant scorn, 
Howe'er to airy Demons suitable, 
Of all unsocial courses, is least lit 
For the gross spirit of mankind, — the one 
That soonest fails to please, and quickliest 

turns 
Into vexation. 

Let us, then, I said, 
Leave this imknit Republic to the scourge 
Of her own passions ; and to regions haste, 
Whose shades have never felt the encroach- 
ing axe. 
Or soil endured a transfer in the mart 
Of dire rapacity. There, Man abides. 
Primeval Nature's child. A creature weak 
In combination, (wherefore else driven back 
So far, and of his old inheritance 
So easily deprived .'') but, for that cause. 
More dignified, and stronger in liimself ; 
Whether to act, judge, suffer, or enjoy 
True, the intelligence of social art 
Hath overpowered his forefathers, and soon 
Will sweep the remnant of his line away; 
But contemplations, worthier, nobler far 
Than her destructive energies, attend 
His independence, when along the side 
Of Mississippi, or that northern stream 
That spreads into successive seas, he walks ; 
Pleased to perceive his own unshackled life. 
And his innate capacities of soul. 
There imaged : or when, having gained the 

top 
Of some commanding em'nence, which yet 
Intruder ne'er beheld, he thence surveys 
Regions of wood and wide savanna, vast 
Expanse of unappropriated earth. 
With mind that sheds a light on what he 

sees; 
Free as the sun, and lonely as the sun. 
Pouring above his head its radiance down 
Upon a living and rejoicing world ! 

So, westward, tow'rd the unviolated woods 
I bent my way ; and, roaming far and wide. 
Failed not to greet the merry Mocking-bird ; 



And, while the melancholy Muccawiss 
(The sportive bird's companion in the grove) 
I'^epeatcd, o'er and o'er, his plaintive cry, 
I sympathized at leisure with the sound ; 
But that pure archetype of human greatness, 
I found him not. There, in his stead, ap 

pearecl 
A creature, squalid, vengeful, and impure; 
Remorseless, and submissive to no law 
But superstitious fear, and abject sloth. 

Enough is told ! Here am I — ye have 

heard 
What evidence I seek, and vainly seek; 
What from my fellow-beings I require, 
And cither they have not to give, or I 
Lack virtue to receive ; what I myself, 
Too oft by wilful forfeiture, liave lost I 

Nor can regain. How languidly I look 
Upon this visible fabric of the world, 
May be divmed — perhaps it hath been 

said : — 
But spare your pity, if there be in me 
Aught that deserves respect : for I exist. 
Within myself, not comfortless. — The tenor 
Which my life holds, he readily may conceive 
Whoe'er hath stood to watch a mountain 

brook 
In some still passage of its course, and seen, 
Within the depths of its capacious breast. 
Inverted trees, rocks, clouds, and azure sky; 
And, on its glassy surface, specks of foam, 
And conglobated bubbles undissolved, 
Numerous as stars ; that, by their onward 

lapse, 
I>etray to sight the motion of the stream. 
Else imperceptible. Meanwhile, is heard 
A softened roar or murmur; and the sound 
Though soothing, and the little floating isles 
Though beautiful, are both by Nature 

charged 
With the same pensive office : and make 

known 
Through what perplexing labyrinths, abrupt 
Precipitations, and untoward straits. 
The earth-born wanderer hath passed ; and 

quickly. 
That respite o'er, like traverses and toils 
Must he again encounter. — Such a stream 
Is human Life ; and so the Spirit fares 
In the best quiet to her course allowed; 
And such is mine, — save only for a hope 
That my particular current soon will reach 
The unfathomable gulf, where all is still 1 " 



THE excursion: 



f>3.5 



BOOK FOURTH. 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 

ARGUMENT. 

State of feeling produced by the foregoing 
Narrative — A belief in a superintending 
Providence the only adequate support under 
affliction — Wanderer's ejaculation — Acknowl- 
edges the difficulty of a lively faith — Hence 
immoderate sorrow — Exhoitatioiis — How re- 
ceived — Wanderer applies his discourse to 
that other cause of dejection in the Solitary's 
mirid — Disappointment from the t'rench Rev- 
olution — States grounds of hope, and insists 
on the necessity of patience and fortitude 
with respect to the course of great revolu- 
tions — Knowledge the source of tranquillity 
— Rural .Solitude favorable to knowledge of 
the inferior Creatures ; Study of their habits 
and ways reconniiended ; exhortation to 
bodily exertion and communion with Nature 

— Morbid Solitude pitiable — Suj^ierstition 
better than apathy — Apathy and destitution 
unknown in the infancy of society — The 
various modes of Religion prevented it — Il- 
lustrated in the Jewish, Persian, Babylonian, 
Ciialdean, and Grecian modes of belief — Soli- 
tary interposes — Wanderer points out the in- 
fluence of religious and imaginative feeling 
in the humble ranks of society, illustrated 
from present and past times — These princi 
pies tend to recall exploded superstitions and 
popery — Wanderer rebuts this charge, and 
contrasts the dignities of the Imagination 
with the presuniinuous littleness of certain 
modern Philosophers — Recommends other 
lights and guides — Asserts the power of the 
Soul to regenerate herself ; Solitary asks how 

— Reply — Personal appeal — Exhortation to 
activity of body renewed — How to commune 
•with Nature — Wanderer concludes with a 
legitimate union of the imagination, affec- 
tions, understanding, and reason — Effect of 
his discourse — Evening ; Return to the 
Cottage. 



Here closed tlie Tenant of that lonely vale 
His mournful narrative — commenced in pain, 
In pain commenced, and ended without 

peace : 
Vet tempered, not unfrequently, with strains 
Of native feelinL;, grateful to our minds ; 
And yielding surely some relief to his. 
While we sate listening with c( mpassion due. 
A pause of silence followed ; then, with voice 
That did not falter though the heart was 

moved, 
The Wanderer said : — 

" One adequate support 



For the calamities of mortal life 
Exists — one only ; an assured belief 
That the procession of our fate, howe'er 
Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being 
Of infinite benevolence and power ; 
Whose everlasting purposes embrace 
All accidents, converting them to good. 
— The darts of anguishy/A: not where the sea! 
Of suffering hath been thoroughly fortified 
By acquiescence in the Will supreme 
For time and for eternity; by laith, 
Faith absolute in God, including hope, 
And the defence that lies in boundless love 
Of his perfections; with habitual dread 
Of aught unworthily conceived, endured 
Impatiently, ill-done, or left undone, 
To the dishonor of his holy name. 
Sold of our Souls, and safeguard of thi 

world ! 
Sustain, thou only canst, the sick of heart ; 
Restore their languid spirits, and recall 
Their lost affections unto thee and thine ! " 

Then, as we issued from that covert nook, 
He thus continued, lifting up his eyes 
To Heaven : — " How beautiful this dome of 

sky; 
And the vast hills, in fluctuatirn fixed 
At thy command, liow awtul ! Shall the 

Soul, 
Human and rational, report of thee 
Even less than these .? — Be mute who will, 

who can, 
Yet I will praise thee witli impassioned voice : 
My lips, that may forget thee in the crowd, 
Cannot forget thee here : where thou hast 

built, 
For thy own glory, in the wilderness ! 
Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine, 
In such a temple as we now behold 
Reared for thy presence : therefore, I air 

bound 
To worship, here, and everywhere — as one 
Not doomed to ignorance, though forced to 

tread, 
From childhood up, the ways of poverty ; 
From unreflecting ignorance preserved, 
And from debasement rescued. — By thy 

grace 
The particle divine remained unquenched ; 
And, 'mid the wild weeds of a rugged soil, 
Thy bounty caused to flourish deathlew 

flowers, 



^34 



THE EXCURSION-. 



From paradise transplanted; wintry age 
Impends; the frost will gather round my 

heart ; 
If the flowers wither, I am worse than dead ! 
^Come, labor, when the worn-out frame re- 
quires 
Perpetual sabbath ; come, disease and want ; 
And sad exclusion through decay cf sense; 
But leave me unabated trust in thee— 
And let thy favor, to the end of life, 
Inspire me with ability to seek 
Repose and hope among eternal things — 
Father of heaven and earth ! and I am rich. 
And will possess my portion in content \ 



And what are things eternal? — powers 
depart," 
The gray-haired Wanderer steadfastly re- 
plied, 
Answering the question which himself had 

asked, 
" Possessions vanish, and opinion change. 
And passions hold a fluctuating seat : 
But, by tiie storms of circumstance unshaken. 
And subject neither to eclipse nor wane. 
Duty exists ; — immutably survive, 
For our support, the measures and the forms, 
Which an abstract intelligence supplies ; 
Whose kingdom is where time and space are 

not. 
Of other converse which mind, soul, and 

heart, 
Do, with imited urgency, require, 
What more that may not perish ? — Thou, 

dread source, 
Prime, self-existing cause and end of all 
That in the scale of being fill their place ; 
Above our human region, or below, 
Set and sustained ; — thou, who didst wrap 

the cloud 
Of infancy around us, that thyself, 
Therem, with our simplicity awhile 
Might'st hold, on earth, communion undis- 
turbed ; 
Who from the anarchy of dreaming sleep. 
Or from its death-like void, with punctual 

care. 
And touch as gentle as the morning light, 
Restor'st us, daily, to the powers of sense 
Aad reason's steadfast rule — thou, thou 

alone 
Art everlasting, and the blessed Spirits, 
Which thou includest, as the sea her waves : 
For adoration thou endur'st ; endure 
For consciousness the motions of thy will ; 
For apprehension those transcendent truths 



Of the pure intellect, that stand as laws 
(Submission constituting strength and 

power) 
Even to thy Being's infinite majesty ! 
This universe shall pass away — a work 
Glorious! because the shadow of thy might, 
A step, or link, for intercourse with thee. 
Ah ! if the time must come, in which my 

fea 
No more shall stray where meditation leads, 
By flowing stream, through wood, or craggy 

wild. 
Loved haunts like these ; the unimprisoned 

Mind 
May yet have scope to range among hei 

own. 
Her thoughts, her images, her high desires. 
If tlie dear faculty of siglit should fail, 
Still, it may be allowed me to remember 
What visionary powers of eye and soul 
In youth were mine ; when, stationed on 

the top 
Of soniejuige hill — expectant, T beheld 
The sun rise up, from distant climes re- 
turned 
Darkness to chase, and sleep ; and bring 

th3 day 
His bounteous gift ! or saw him toward the 

deep 
Sink w.th a retinue of flaming clouds 
Attended; then, my spirit was entranced 
With joy exalted to beatitude ; 
The measure of my soul was filled with 

bliss, 
And holiest love ; as earth, s?a, air, with 

light. 
With pomp, with glory, with magnificence ! 

Those fervent raptures are forever flown ; 
And, since their date, my soul hath under- 
gone 
Change manifold, for better or for worse : 
Vet cease I not to struggle, and aspire 
Heavenward ; and chide the part of me that 

flags, 
Through sinful choice ; or dread necessity 
On human nature from above imposed 
'Tis, by comparison, an easy task 
Earth to despise ; but, to converse with 

heaven — 
This is not easv : — to relinquish all 
We have, or hope, of happiness and joy, 
And stand in freedom loosened from this 

world, 
I deem not arduous ; but must needs con 

fess 
That 'tis a thing impossible to frame 



THE FXCURSIOI^. 



^'35 



Conceptions equal to the soul's desires ; 
And the most difficult of tasks to keep 
Heights which the soul is competent to 

gain. 
-Man IS of dust . ethereal hopes are his, 
Which, when they should sustain themselves 

aloft, 
,Vant due consistence; like a pillar of 

smoke, 
That with majestic energy from earth 
Rises; but, having reached the tliinner air, 
Melts, and dissolves, and is no longer seen. 
I'^rom this infirmity of mortal kind 
Sorrow proceeds, which else were not ; at 
least, [dained. 

If grief be something hallowed and or- 
\\ in proportion it be just and meet. 
Yet, through this weakness of the general 

heart, 
Is it enabled to maintain its hold 
\\\ that excess which conscience disap- 
proves. 
For wiio could sink and settle to that point 
Of selfishness ; so senseless who could be 
As long and perseveringly to mourn 
I'^or any object of his love, removed 
I'loni this unstable world, if he could fix 
A satisfying view upon that state 
Of pure, imperishable, blessedness, 
Which reason promises, and holy writ 
Ensures to all believers ? — Yet mistrust 
Is of such incapacity, methinks. 
No natural branch ; despondency far less ; 
And, least of all, is absolute despair. 
— And, if there be whose tender frames 

have drooped 
Ev6n to the dust ; apparently, through 

weight 
Of anguish unrelieved, and lack of power 
An agonizing sorrow to transmute ; 
Deem not that proof is here of hope with- 
held 
When wanted most ; a confidence impaired 
So pitiably that, having ceased to see 
With bodily eyes, they are borne down by 

love 
Df what is lost, and perish through regret. 
Oh ! no, the innocent Sufferer often sees 
Too clearly ; feels too vividly ; and longs 
To realize the vision, with intense 
And over-constant yearning; — there— there 

lies 
The excess, by which the balance is de- 
stroyed. 
Too, too contracted are these walls of flesh. 
This vital warmth too cold, these visual 
orbs, 



Though inconceivably endowed, too dim 
For any passion of the soul that leads 
To ecstasy , and, all the crooked patlis 
Of time and change disdaining, takes its 

course 
Along the line of limitless desires 
I, speaking now from such disorder free, 
Nor rapt, nor craving, but in settled jieace, 
I cannot doubt that they whom yon deplore 
Are glorified ; or, if they sleep, sliall wake 
From sleep, and dwell with God in endless 

love. 
Hope below this consists not with belief 
In mercy, carried infinite degrees 
Beyond the tenderness of human hearts; 
Hope below this consists not with belief 
In perfect wisdom, guiding mightiest power 
That finds no limits but her own pure will. 

Here then we rest not fearing for our 

creed. 
The worst that human reasoning can 

achieve, 
To unsettle or perplex it : yet with pa:n 
Acknowledging, and grievous self-reproach. 
That, tiiougU immovably convinced, wc 

want 
Zeal, and the virtue to exist by faith 
As soldiers live by courage; as, by strength 
Of heart, the sailor fights with roaring seas. 
Alas ! the endowment of immortal jiowcr 
Is matched unequally with custom, t.me. 
And domineering faculties of sense 
In all , in most with superadded foes, 
Idle temptations ; open vanities, 
Ephemeral offspring of the unblushing 

world; 
And, in the private regions of the mind. 
Ill-governed passions, ranklings of despite, 
Immoderate wishes, pining discontent. 
Distress and care. What then remains ? — 

To seek 
Those helps for his occasions ever near 
Who lacks not will to use them ; vows, re- 
newed 
On the first motion of a holy thought ; 
Vigils of contemplation ; praise ; and prav- 

er — [heart 

A stream, which, from the fountain of the 
Issuing, hov/ever feebly, nowliere flows 
Without access of unexpected strength. 
But, above all, the victory is most sure 
For him, who, seeking faith by virtue, 

strives 
To yield entire submission to the law 
Of conscience — conscience reverenced and 

obeyed, 



636 



THE EXCURSION. 



As God's most intimate presence in tke 

soul, 
And his most perfect image in the world. 
— Endeavor thus to live ; these rules re- 
gard, 
These helps solicit ; and a steadfast seat 
Shall then be yours among the happy few 
Who dwell on earth, yet breathe empyreal 

air, 
Sons of the morning. For your nobler 

part. 
Ere disencumbered of her mortal chains, 
Doubt shall be quelled and trouble chased 

away ; 
Witli only such degree of sadness left 
As may support longings of pure desire ; 
And strengthened love, rejoicing secretly 
In the sublime attractions of the grave." 

While, in this strain, the venerable Sage 
Poured forth his aspirations, and announced 
His judgments, near that lonely house wc 

paced, 
A plot of green-sward, seemingly preserved 
By nature's care from wreck of scattered 

stones, 
And from encroachment of encircling heath : 
Small space ! but, for reiterated steps. 
Smooth and commodious ; as a stately deck 
Which to and fro the mariner is used 
To tread for pastime, talking with his mates, 
Or haply thinking of far-distant friends, 
While the ship glides before a steady breeze. 
Stillness prevailed around us : and the voice 
That spake was capable to lift tlie soul 
Toward regions yet more tranquil. But me- 

thought 
That he, whose fixed despondency had 

given 
Impulse and motive to that strong discourse. 
Was less upraised in spirit than abashed ; 
Shrinking from admonition, like a man 
Who feels that to exhort is to reproach. 
Yet not to be diverted from his aim. 
The Sage continued: — 

" For that other loss, 
The loss of confidence in social man, 
Dy the unexpected transports of our age 
Carried so high that every thought which 

looked 
Beyond the temporal destiny of the Kind 
To many seemed superfluous — as no cause 
Could e'er for such exalted confidence 
Exist ; so, none is now for fixed despair ; 
The two extremes are equally disowned 
By reason : if, with sharp recoil, from one 
You have been driven far as its opposite. 



Between them seek the point whereon to 

build 
Sound expectations. So doth he advise 
Wiio shared at first the illusion ; but was 

soon 
Cast from the pedestal of pride by shocks 
Which Nature gentiy 2;ave, in woods and 

fields ; 
Nor unreproved by Providence, thus speak 

ing 
To the inattentive children of the world : 
' Vain-glorious Generation ! what new pow^ 

ers 
On you have been conferred ? what gifts, 

withheld 
From your progenitors, have ye received. 
Fit recompense of new desert 1 what claim 
Are ye prepared to urge, that my decrees 
For you should undergo a sudden change ; 
.'\nd the weak functions of one busy day, 
Reclaiming and extirpating, perform 
Wliat all the slowly moving years of time, 
With their united force, have left undone .'' 
By nature's gradual processes be taught ; 
By story be confounded ! Ye aspire 
Rashly, to fall once more ; and that false 

fruit, 
Which, to your over-weening spirits, yields 
Hope of a flight celestial, will produce 
Misery and shame. But Wisdom of her 

hons 
Shall not the less, though late, be justified-* 

Such timely warning," said the Wan- 
derer, " gave 
That visionary voice ; and, at this day, 
Wlien a Tartarean darkness overspreads 
The groaning nations ; when the impious 

rule. 
By will or by established ordinance, 
Their own dire agents, and constrain the 

good 
To acts which they abhor ; though I bewail 
This triumph, yet the pity of mv heart 
Prevents me not from owning, that the law, 
By which mankind now suffers, is most just. 
For by superior energies ; more strict 
Affiance in each other ; faitii more firm 
In their unhallowed principles ; the bad 
Have fairly earned a victory o'er the weak, 
The vacillating, inconsistent good. 
Therefore, not unconsolcd, I wait — in hope 
To see the moment when the righteous 

cause 
Shall gain defenders zealous and devout 
As they wiio have opposed her; in whicli 
Viitue 



THE EXCURSION. 



037 



Will, to her efforts, tolerate no bounds 
That are not lofty as her rights ; aspiring 
By impulse of her own ethereal zeal. 
That spirit only can redeem mankind ; 
And when that sacred spirit shall appear. 
Then shall our triumph be complete as 

theirs. 
Yet, shoald this confidence prove vain, the 

wise 
Have still the keeping of their proper peace ; 
Are guardians of their own tranquillity. 
They act, or thev recede, observe, and feel ; 
' Knowing the heart of man is set to be 
The centre of this world, about the which 
Those revolutions of disturbances 
Still roll ; where all the aspects of misery 
Predominate ; whose strong efforts are such 
As he must bear, being powei less to redress ; 
And that rinless above himself he can 
Erect himself, how poor a thing is Man .' ' * 

Happy is he who lives to understand, 
Not human nature only, but explores 
All natures, — to the end that he may find 
Tlie law that governs each; and where 

begins 
Tlie union, the partition where, that makes 
Kind and degree, among all visible lieings ; 
The constitutions, powers, and faculties. 
Which they inherit, -cannot step beyond, — 
And cannot fall beneath ; that do assign 
To every class its station and its ofifice. 
Through all the mighty commonwealth of 

things; 
Up from the creeping plant to sovereign 

Man. 
Such converse, if directed by a meek, 
Sincere, and humble spirit, teaches love. 
For knowledge is delight ; and such de- 
light 
Breeds love : yet, suited as it rather is 
To thought and to the climbing intellect, 
It teaches less to love than to adore ; 
If that be not indeed the highest love ! '' 

" Yet," said I, tempted here to interpose, 
*' The dignity of life is not impaired 
By aught that innocently satisfies 
The humbler cravings of the heart ; and he 
Is a still happier man, who, for those 

heights 
Of speculation not unfit, descends ; 
And such benign affections cultivates 
Among the inferior kinds ; not merelv those 
That he may call his own, and which de- 
pend, 



* Danitl. 



As individual objects of regard, 
Upon his care, from whom he also looks 
For signs and tokens of a mutual bond ; 
But others, far beyond this narrow sphere, 
Whom, for the very sake of love, he love*. 
Nor is it a mean praise of rural life 
And solitude, that they do favor most 
Most frequently call forth, and best sustain, 
These pure sensations ; that can penetrate 
The obstreperous city ; on the barren seas 
Are not unfelt ; and much might recom- 
mend. 
How much they might inspirit and endear, 
The loneliness of this sublime retreat ! " 

" Yes,'' said the Sage, resuming the dis. 

course 
Again directed to his downcast Friend, 
" if, with the froward will and grovelling 

soul 
Of man, offended, liberty is here. 
And invitation every hour renewed. 
To mark their placid state who never 

heard 
Of a command which they have power to 

break. 
Or rule which they are tempted to trans- 
gress : 
These, with a soothed or elevated heart, 
May we beliold ; their knowledge register ; 
Observe their ways ; and, free from envy, 

find 
Complacence there :— but wherefore this to 

you 1 
I guess that, welcome to your lonely hearth 
The redbreast, ruffled up by winter's cold 
Into a ' feathery bunch,' feeds at your hand. 
A box, perchance, is from your casement 

hung 
For the small wren to build in ;— not in 

vain, 
The barriers disregarding that surround 
This deep abiding place, before your sight 
Mounts on the breeze the butterfly ; and 

soars. 
Small creature as he is, from earth's brigkt 

flowers. 
Into the dewy clouds. Ambition reigns 
In the waste wilderness : the Soul ascends 
Drawn towards her native firmament oi 

heaven, 
When the fresh eagle, in the month of 

May, 
Upborne, at evening, on replenished wing, 
This sliaded valley leaves , and leaves the 

dark 
Empurpled hills, conspicuously renewing 



638 



THE EXCURSION. 



A pioud communication with the sun 
Low sunk beneath the lionzon ! — List ! — I 

heard, 
From yon huge breast of rock, a voice sent 

fortii 
As if tlie visible mountain made tlie cry. 
Again I" — The effect upon the soul was 

such 
As he expressed : from out the mountain's 

heart 
The solemn voice appeared to issue, start- 
ling 
The blank air — for the region all around 
Stood empty of all shape of life, and silent 
Save for that single cry, the unanswer'd bleat 
Of a poor lamb — left somewhere to itself, 
The plaintive spirit of the solitude ! 
He paused, as if unwilling to proceed, 
Through consciousness that silence in such 

place 
Was best, the most affecting eloquence. 
But soon his thoughts returned upon them- 
selves. 
And, in soft tone of speech, thus he rc- 
resumed. 

" Ah ! if the heart, too confidently raised. 
Perchance too liglitly occupied, or lulled 
Too easily, despise or overlook 
The vassalage that binds her to the earth, 
Her sad dependence upon time, and all 
Tiie trepidations of mortality. 
What place so destitute and void — but 

there 
The little fiower her vanity shall check ; 
The trailing worm reprove her thoughtless 

pride ? 

These cragc^v regions, these chaotic wilds, 
Does that benignity pervade that warms 
The mole contented with her darksome 

walk 
In the cold ground ; and to the emmet gives 
Her foresight, and intelligence that makes 
The tiny creatures strong l)y social league ; 
Supports the generations, multiplies 
Their tribes, till we behold a spacious plain 
Or grassy bottom, all, with little hills — 
Their labor, covered, as a lake with waves ; 
Thousands of cities, in the desert place, 
Built up of life, and food, and means of 

life! 
Nor wanting here, to entertain the thought, 
Creatures that in communities exist. 
Less, as might seem, for general guardian 

ship 
Or through dependence upon mutual aid, 



! Than by participation of delight 

And a strict love of fellowship, combined. 
I What other spirit can it be that prompts 
The gilded summer flies to mix and w.ave 
Their sports together in the solar beam, 
Or in tlie gloom of twilight hum their j(;v ? 
More obviously the self-same influence rules 
The feathered kinds ; the fieldfare's pensive 

flock, 
The cawing rooks, and sea-mews from afar, 
Hovering above these inland solitudes. 
By the rough wind unscattered, at whose 

call [vales 

Up through the trenches of the long-drawn 
Their voyage was begun : nor is its power 
Unfelt among the sedentary fowl 
That seek yen pool, and theie prolong their 

stay 
in sileni; congress ; or together roused 
Take flight ; while with tlicir clang tlie air 

resounds. 
And, over all, in that ethereal vault, 
Is the mute company of changetul clouds; 
Bright apparition, suddenly put forth. 
The rainbow smiling on the faded storm ; 
The mild assemblage of the starry heavens; 
And the great sun, earth's universal lord ! 

How bountiful is Nature ! he shall find 
Who seeks not ; and to him who hath not 

asked 
Large measure shall be dealt. Three 

sabbath-davs 
.Are scarcely tokl, since, on a service bent 
Of mere humanity, you clomb those heights; 
And what a marvellous and heavenly show 
Was suddenly revealed I — the swains moved 

on. 
And heeded not : you lingered, you per- 
ceived 
And felt, deeply as living man could feel. 
There is a luxury in self-dispiaise ; 
And inward self-disparagement affords 
To meditative spleen a grateful feast. 
Trust me, pronouncing on your own desert, 
You judge unthankfully : distempered 

nerves 
Infect the thoughts : the languor of thi; 

frame 
Depresses the soul's vigor. Quit your 

couch — 
Cleave not so fondly to your moody cell ; 
Nor let the hallowed powers, that shed from 

heaven 
Stillness and rest, with disapproving eve 
Look down upon your taper, through 3 

watch 



THE EXCURSION. 



639 



Of midnight hours, unseasonably twinkling 
In this deep Hollow, like a sullen star 
Dimly reflected in a lonely pool. 
Take courage and withdraw yourself from 

ways 
That run not parallel to nature's course. 
Rise with the lark ! your matins shall 

obtain 
Grace, be their composition what it may, 
If but with hers performed ; climb once 

again, 
CUmb every day, those ramparts ; meet the 

breeze 
Upon their tops, adventurous as a bee 
That from your garden thither soars, to 

feed 
On new-blown heath ; let yon commanding 

rock 
Be your frequented watch-tower ; roll the 

stone 
In thunder down the mountains ; with all 

your might 
Chase the wild goat ; and if the bold red 

deer 
Fly to those harbors, driven by hound and 

horn 
Loud echoing, add your speed to the pur- 
suit ; 
So, wearied to your hut shall you return. 
And sink at evening into sound repose." 

The Solitary lifted toward the hills 
A kindling eye : — accordant feelings rushed 
Into my bosom, whence these words broke 

forth : 
" Oh ! what a joy it were, in vigorous 

health. 
To have a body (this our vital frame 
With shrinking sensibility endued, 
And all the nice regards of flesh and 

blood) 
And to the elements surrender it 
As if it were a spirit ! — How divine, 
The liberty, for frail, for mortal man 
To roam at large among unpeopled glens 
And mountainous retirements, only trod 
By devious footsteps; regions consecrate 
To oldest time ! and, reckless of the storm 
That keeps the raven quiet in her nest, 
Be as a presence or a motion -one 
Among the many there ; and while the 

mists 
Flying, and rainy vapors, caM out shapes 
And phantoms from the crags and solid 

earth 
As fast as musician scatters sounds 



Out of an instrument ; and while the 

streams 
(As at a first creation and in haste 
To exercise their untried faculties) 
Descending from the region of the clouds, 
And starting from the hollows of the eartk 
More multitudinous every moment, rend 
Their way before them — what a joy to 

roam 
An equal among mightiest energies ; 
And haply sometimes with articulate voice. 
Amid the deafening tumult, scarcely heard 
By him that utters it, exclaim aloud, 
* Rage on, ye elements ! let moon and stars 
Their aspects lend, and mingle in their turn 
With this commotion (ruinous though it be) 
From day to night, from night to day, pro- 
longed ! ' " 
" Yes," said the Wanderer, taking from 
my lips 
The strain of transport, "whosoe'er in 

youth 
Has, through ambition of his soul, given 

way 
To such desires, and grasped at such de- 
light. 
Shall feel congenial stirrings late and long. 
In spite of all the weakness that life brings. 
Its cares and sorrows ; he, though taught 

to own 
The tranquillizing power of time, shall 

wake, 
Wake sometimes to a noble restlessness — 
Loving the sports which once he gloried in. 

Compatriot, Friend, remote are Garry's 

hills, 

The streams far distant of your native glen ; 

Yet is their form and image here expressed 

With brotherly resemblance. Turn your 

steps 
Wherever fancy leads ; by day, by night, 
Are various engines working, not the same 
As those with which your suul in youth was 

moved, 
But by the great Artificer endowed 
With no inferior power. You dwell alone ; 
You walk, you live, you speculate alone ; 
Yet doth remembrance, like a sovereign 

prince. 
For you a stately gallery maintain 
Of gay or tragic pictures. You have seen, 
Have acted, suffered, travelled far, ob- 
served 
With no incurious eye ; and books are 

yours. 
Within whose silent chambers treasure lies 



640 



THE EXCURSION. 



Preserved from age to age ; more precious 

far 
Than that accumulated store of gold 
And orient gems, which, for a day of need, 
The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. 
These hoards of truth you can unlock at 

will: 
And music waits upon your skilful touch, 
Sounds which the wandering shepherd from 

these heights 
Hears, and forgets his purpose; — furnished 

thus, 
How can you droop, if willing to be up- 
raised ? 

A piteous lot it were to fiee from Man- 
Yet not rejoice in Nature. He, whose 

hours 
Are by domestic pleasures uncaressed 
And unenlivened ; who exists whole years 
Apart from benefits received or done 
'Mid the transactions of the bustling crowd ; 
Who neither hears, nor feels a wish to hear 
Of the world's interests — such a one hath 

need 
Of a quick fancy, and an active heart. 
That, for the day's consumption, books may 

yield 
Food not unwholesome ; earth and air 

correct 
His morbid humor, with delight supplied 
Or solace, varying, as the seasons change. 
— Truth has her pleasure-grounds, her 

haunts of ease 
And easy contemplation ; gay parterres. 
And labyrinthine walks, her sunny glades 
And shady groves in studied contrast — 

each, 
For recreation, leading into each ; 
These may he range, if willing to partake 
Their soft indulgences, and in due time 
May issue thence, recruited for the tasks 
And course of service Truth requires from 

those 
Who tend her altars, wait upon her throne, 
And guard her fortresses. Who thinks, 

and feels. 
And recognizes ever and anon 
The breeze of nature stirring in his soul, 
Why need such man go desperately astray. 
And nurse ' the dreadful appetite of death ? ' 
If tired with systems, each in its degree 
Substantial, and all crumbling in their turn, 
Let him build systems of his own, and 

smile 
At the fond work, demolished with a 

touch i 



If unreligious, let him be at once 

Amon;^ ten tliousand innocents, enrolled 
A pupil in tlie many-chambered school 
Where superstition weaves her airy dreams. 

Life's autumn past, I stand on winter's 

verge ; 
And daily lose what I desire to keep : 
Vet rathor would I instantly decline 
To the traditionary sympathies 
Of a most rustic ignorance, and take 
A fearful apprehension from the owl 
Or death-watch : and as readily rejoice, 
If two auspicious magpies crossed my 

way ; — 
To this would rather bend than see and 

hear 
The repetitions wearisome of sense. 
Where soul is dead, and feeling hath no 

place ; 
Where knowledge, ill begun in cold re- 
mark 
On outward things, with formal inference 

ends , 
Or, if the mind turn inward, she recoils 
At once — or, not recoiling, is perplexed 
Lost in a gloom of uninspired research ; 
Meanwhile, the heart within the heart, the 

seat 
Where peace and happy consciousness 

should dwell, 
On its own axis restlessly revolving. 
Seeks, yet can nowhere find, the light of 

truth. 

Upon the breast of new-created earth 
Man walked , and when and wheresoe'er hp 

moved. 
Alone or mated, solitude was not. 
He heard, borne on the wind the articulate 

voice 
Of God ; and Angels to his sight appeared 
Crowning the glorious hills of paradise ; 
Or through the groves gliding like morning 

mist 
Enkindled by the sun. He sate — and 

talked 
With winged Messengers ; who daily 

brought 
To his small island in the ethereal deep 
Tidings of joy and love. — From those pure 

heights 
(Whether of actual vision, sensible 
To sight and feeling, or that in this sort 
Have condescendingly been shadowed 

forth 
Communications spiritually maintained, 



TTTE EXCURSION. 



641 



And intuitions moral and divine) 
Fell Human-kind — to banishment con- 
demned 
That flowing years repealed not : and dis- 
tress 
And grief spread wide ; but Man escaped 

the doom 
Of destitution : — solitude was not. 
— Jehovah — shapeless Power above all 

Powers, 
Single and one, the omnipresent God, 
By vocal utterance, or blaze of light, 
Or cloud of darkness, localized in heaven ; 
On earth, enshrined within the wandering 

ark ; 
Or, out of Sion, thundering from his throne 
Between the Cherubim — on the chosen 

Race 
Showered miracles, and ceased not to dis- 
pense [age 
Judgments, that filled the land from age to 
With hope, and love, and gratitude, and 

fear ; 
And with amazement smote ; — thereby to 

assert 
His scorned, or unacknowledged, sover- 
eignty. 
A nd when the One, ineffable of name, 
Of nature indivisible, withdrew 
From mortal adoration or regard. 
Not then was Deity engulfed ; nor Man, 
The rational creature, left to feel tlie weight 
Of his own reason, without sense or thought 
Of higher reason and a purer will, 
To benefit and bless, through mightier 

power : — 
Whether the Persian — zealous to reject 
Altar and miage, and the inclusive walls 
And roofs of temples built by human 

hands — 
To loftiest heights ascending, from their 

tops. 
With myrtle-wreathed tiara on his brow, 
Presented sacrifice to moon and stars, 
And to the winds and mother elements, 
And the whole circle of the heavens, for 

him 
A sensitive existence, and a God, 
With lifted hands invoked, and songs of 

praise : 
Or, less reluctantly to bonds of sense 
Yielding his soul, the Babylonian framed 
For influence undefined a personal shape ; 
And, from the plain, with toil immense, up- 
reared 
Tower eight times planted on the top of 
tower, 



Tliat Belus, nightly to his splendid couch 
Descending, there might rest ; upon that 

height 
Pure and serene, diffused — to overlook 
Winding Euphrates, and the city vast 
Of his devoted worshippers, far-stretched, 
With grove and field and garden inter- 
spersed ; 
Their town, and foodful region for support 
Against the pressure of beleaguering war. 

Chaldean Shepherds, ranging; trackless 

fields, 
Beneath the concave of unclouded skies 
Spread like a sea, in boundless solitude. 
Looked on the polar star, as on a guide 
And guardian of their course, that never 

closed 
His steadfast eye. The planetary Five 
With a submissive reverence they beheld ; 
Watched, from the centre of their sleeping 

flocks, 
Those radiant Mercuries, that seemed to 

move 
Carrying through ether, in perpetual round, 
Decrees and resolutions of the Gods ; 
And, by their aspects, signifying works 
Of dim fi.turity, to Man revealed. 
— The imaginative faculty was lord 
Of observations natural ; and, thus 
Led on, those shepherds niade report of 

stars 
In set rotation passing to and fro. 
Between the orbs of our apparent sphere 
And its invisible counterpart, adorned 
With answering constellations, under earth, 
Removed from all approach of living sight 
But present to the dead ; who, so they 

deemed, 
Like those celestial messengers beheld 
All accidents, and judges were of all. 

The lively Grecian, in a land of hills, 
Rivers and fertile plains, and sounding 

shores, — 
Under a cope of sky more variable, 
Could find commodious place for every 

God, 
Promptly received, as prodigally brought. 
From the surrounding countries, at the 

choice 
Of all adventurers. With unrivalled skill, 
As nicest observation furnished hints 
For studious fancy, his quick hand be- 
stowed 
On fluent operations a fixed shape ; 
Metal or stone, idolatrously served. 



642 



THE EXCURSION. 



And yet—triumphant o'er this pompous 

show 
Of art, this palpable array of sense, _ 
On every side encountered ; in despite 
Of the gross fictions chanted in the streets 
By wandering Rhapsodists ; and in con- 
tempt 
Of doubt and bold denial hourly urged 
Amid the wrangling schools— a spirit 

hung, 
Beautiful region ! o'er thy to\A'ns and 

farms, 
Statues and temples, and memorial tombs ; 
And emanations were perceived ; and acts 
Of immortality, in Nature's course, 
Exemplified by mysteries, that were felt 
As bonds, on grave philosopher imposed 
And armed warrior ; and in every grove 
A gay or pensive tenderness prevailed, 
When piety more awful had relaxed. 
— * Take, running river, take these locks of 

mine ' — 
Thus would the Votary say—' this severed 

hair. 
My vow fulfilling, do I here present. 
Thankful for my beloved child's return. 
Thy banks, Cephisus, he again hath trod, 
Thy murmurs heard ; and drunk the crys- 
tal lymph [lip, 
With which thou dost refresh the thirsty 
And, all day long, moisten these flowery 

fields I ' 
And doubtless, sometimes, when the hair 

was shed 
Upon the flowing stream, a thought arose 
Of Life continuous, Being unimpaired ; 
That hath been, is, and where it was and is 
There shall endure, — existence unexposed 
To the blind walk of mortal accident ; 
From diminution safe and weakening age ; 
While man grows old, and dwindles, and 

decays ; 
And countless generations of mankind 
Depart ; and leave no vestige where they 
trod. 

We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love ; 
And, even as these are well and wisely 

fixed, 
In dignity of being we ascend. 
But what is error ? " — " Answer he who 

can ! " 
The Skeptic somewhat haughtily exclaimed : 
" Love, Hope, and Admiration — are they 

not 
Mad Fancy's favorite vassals? Does not 

life 



Use them, full oft, as pioneers to ruin, 
Gviides to destruction ? Is it well to trust 
Imagination's light when reason's fails. 
The unguarded taper where the guarded 

faints ? 
— Stoop from those heights, and soberly de. 

clare 
What error is ; and, of our errors, which 
Doth most debase the mind ; the genuine 

seats 
Of power, where are they? Who shall 

regulate, 
With truth, the scale of intellectual rank ?" 

" Methinks," persuasively the Sage re- 
plied, 
" That for this arduous office you possess 
Some rare advantages. Your early days 
A grateful recollection must supply 
Of much exalted good by Heaven vouch- 
safed 
To dignify the humblest state. — Your 

voice 
Hath, in my hearing, often testified 
That poor men's children, they, and they 

alone, 
By their condition taught, can understand 
The wisdom of the prayer that daily asks 
For daily bread. A consciousness is yours 
How feelingly religion may be learned 
In smoky cabins, from a mother's tongue — 
Heard while the dwelling vibrates to the 

din 
Of the contiguous torrent, gathering 

strength 
At every moment — and, with strength, in- 
crease 
Of fury ; or, while snow is at the door, 
Assaulting and defejiding, and the wind, 
A sightless laborer, whistles at his work — 
Fearful ; but resignation tempers fear, 
And piety is sweet to infant minds, 
— The Shepherd-lad, that in the sunshine 

carves. 
On the green turf, a dial — to divide 
The silent hours ; and who to that report 
Can portion out his pleasures, and adapt, 
Throughout a long and lonely summer's 

day. 
His round of pastoral duties, is not left 
With less intelligence for moral things 
Of gravest import. Early he perceives, 
Within himself, a measure and a rule. 
Which to the sun of truth he can apply, 
That shines for him, and shines for aH 

mankind. 
Experience daily fixing his regards 



THE 'EXCURSION. 



H% 



On nature's wants, he knows how few they 
are, 

And where they lie, how answered and ap- 
peased. 
This knowledge ample recompense affords 
For manifold privations ; he refers 
His notions to this standard ; on this rock 
Rests his desires ; and hence, in after life, 
Soul-strengthening patience, and sublime 

content. 
Imagination — not permitted here 
To waste her powers, as in the worldling's 

mind. 
On fickle pleasures, and superfluous cares, 
And trivial ostentation — is left free 
And puissant to range the solemn walks 
Of time and nature, girded by a zone 
That, while it binds, invigorates and sup- 
ports. 
Acknowledge, then, that whether by the 

side 
Of his poor hut. or on the mountain top, 
Or in the cultured field, a Man so bred 
(Take from him what you will upon the 

score 
Of ignorance or illusion) lives and breathes 
For noble purposes of mind: his heart 
Beats to the heroic song of ancient days ; 
His eye distinguishes, his soul creates. 
And those illusions, which excite the scorn 
Or move the pity of unthinking minds, 
Are they not mainly outward ministers 
Of inward conscience ? with whose service 

charged 
They came and go, appeared and disappear. 
Diverting evil purposes, remorse 
Awakening, chastening an intemperate 

grief. 
Or pride of heart abating : and, whene'er 
For less important ends those phantoms 
move, [serve, 

Wlio would forbid them, if their presence 
On thinly-peopled mountains and wild 

heaths, 
Filling a space, else vacant, to exalt 
The forms of Nature, and enlarge her 
powers .'' 

Once more to distant ages of the world 
Let us revert, and place before our thoughts 
The face which rural solitude might wear 
To the unenlightened swains of pagan 

Greece. 
'—In that fair clime, the lonely herdsman, 

stretched 
On the soft grass through half a summer's 

day, 



With music lulled his indolent repose : 

And, in some fit of weariness, if he 

When his own breath was silent, chanced to 
hear 

A distant strain, far sweeter than the 
sounds 

Which his poor skill could make, his fancy 
fetched, 

Even from the blazing chariot of the sun, 

A beardless Youth, who touched a golden 
lute, 

And filled the illumined groves with ravish- 
ment. 

The nightly hunter, lifting a bright eye 

Up towards the crescent moon, with grate- 
ful heart 

Called on the lovely wanderer who be- 
stowed 

That timely light, to share his joyous 
sport : 

And hence, a beaming Goddess with her 
Nymphs, 

Across the lawn and through the darksome 
grove. 

Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes 

By echo multiplied from rock or cave, 

Swept in the storm of chase ; as moon and 
stars 

Glance rapidly along the clouded heaven. 

When winds are blowing strong. The 
traveller slaked 

His thirst from rill or gushing fount, and 
thanked 

The Naiad. Sunbeams, upon distant hills 

Gliding apace, with shadows in their train. 

Might, with small help from fancy, be trans- 
formed 

Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly. 

The Zephyrs fanning, as they passed, their 
wings. 

Lacked not, for love, fair objects whom they 
wooed 

With gentle whisper. Withered boughs* 
grotesque. 

Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary 
age. 

From depth of shaggy covert peeping 
forth 

In the low vale, or on steep mountain side | 

And, sometimes, intermixed with stirring 
horns 

Of the live deer, or goat's depending 
beard,— 

These were the lurking Satyrs, a wild 
brood 

Of gamesome Deities; or Tan liimsclf. 

The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring God I '* 



644 



THE EXCURSION. 



The strain was aptly chosen ; and I could 

mark 
Its kindly influence, o'er the yielding brow 
Of our Companion, gradually diffused ; 
While, listening, he had paced the noiseless 

turf. 
Like one whose untired ear a murmuring 

stream 
Delains ; but tempted now to interpose, 
He with a smile exclaimed : — 

" 'Tis well you speak 
At a safe distance from our-native land, 
And from the mansions where our youth 

was tauglit. 
The true descendants of those godly men 
Who swept from Scotland, in a flame of 

zeal, 
Shrine, altar, image, and the massy piles 
That harbored them, — the souls retaining 

yet 
The churlish features of that after-race 
Who fled to woods, caverns, and jutting 

rocks. 
In deadly scorn of superstitious rites. 
Or what their scruples construed to be 

such — 
How, think you, would they tolerate this 

scheme 
Of fine propensities, that tends, if urged 
Far as it might be urged, to sow afresh 
The weeds of Romish phantasy, in vain 
Uprooted ; would re-consecrate our wells 
To good Saint Fillan and to fair Saint 

Anne ; ' [Giles, 

And from long banishment recall Saint 
To watch again with tutelary love 
O'er stately Edinborough throned on 

crags ? 
A blessed restoration, to behold 
The patron, on the shoulders of his priests. 
Once more parading through our crowded 

streets 
Now simply guarded by the solder powers 
Of science, and philosophy, and sense ! " 

This answer followed. — " You have turned 
my thoughts 
Upon our brave Progenitors, who rose 
Against idolatry with warlike mind. 
And shrunk from vain observances, to lurk 
In woods, and dwell under impending rocks 
Ill-sheltered, and Oi't wanting fire and food ; 
Why ? — for this very reason ihat they felt, 
And did acknowledge, wheresoe'er they 

moved, 
A spiritual presence, oft-times miscon- 
ceived, 



But still a high dependence, a divine 

Bounty and government, that filled their 
hearts 

With joy, and gratitude, and fear, and love ; 

And from their fervent lips drew hymns of 
praise, 

That through the desert rang. Though fa- 
vored less. 

Far less, than these, yet such, in their de- 
gree, 

Were those bewildered Pagans of old time. 

Beyond their own poor natures and above 

They looked ; were humbly tliankful for the 
good 

Which the warm sun solicited, and earth 

Bestowed ; were gladsome, — and their moral 
sense 

They fortified with reverence for the Gods ; 

And they had hopes that overstepped the 
Grave, 

Now, shall our great scoverers," he ex- 
claimed, 
Raising his voice triumphantly, " obtain 
From sense and reason less than these ob- 
tained, 
Tliough far misled 1 Shall men for whom 

our age 
Unbafiled powers of vision hath prepared. 
To explore the world without and world 

within, 
Be joyless as the blind? Ambitious 

spirits — 
Whom earth, at this late season, hath pro- 
duced 
To regulate the moving spheres, and weigh 
The planets in the hollow of their hand ; 
And they who rather dive than soar, whose 

pains 
Have solved the elements, or analyzed 
The thinking principle— shall they in fact 
Prove a degraded Race.? and what avails 
Renown, if their presumption make them 

such ? 
Oh ! there is laughter at their work in 

heaven ! 
Inquire of ancient Wisdom ; go, demand 
Of mighty Nature, if 'twas ever meant 
That we should pry far off yet be unraised : 
That we should pore and dwindle as we 

pore. 
Viewing all objects unremittingly 
In disconnection dead and spiritless ; 
And still dividing, and dividing still, 
Break down all grandeur, sti)l unsatisfied 
With the perverse attempt, while littleness 
May yet become more little i waging thui 



THE EXCURSION: 



645 



An impious warfare with the very life 
Of our own souls ! 

And if indeed there be 
An all-pervading Spirit, upon whom 
Our dark foundations rest, could he design 
That this magnificent effect of power. 
The earth we tread, the sky that we be- 
hold 
By day, and all the pomp which night re- 
veals ; 
That these — and that superior mystery 
Our vital frame, so fearfully devised, 
And the dread soul within it — should exist 
Only to be examined, pondered, searched. 
Probed, vexed, and criticised ? — Accuse me 

not 
Of arrogance, unknown Wanderer as 1 am, 
If, having walked with Nature threescore 

years, 
And offered, far as frailty would allow, 
My heart a daily sacrifice to Truth, 
I now affirm of Nature and of Truth, 
Whom I have served, that their Divinity 
Revolts, offended at the ways of men 
Swayed by such motives, to such ends em- 
ployed ; 
Philosophers, who, though the human soul 
Be of a thousand faculties composed, 
And twice ten thousand interests, do yet 

prize 
This soul, and the transcendent universe, 
No more than as a mirror that reflects 
To proud Self-love her own intelligence ; 
That one, poor, finite object, in the abyss 
Of infinite Being, twinkling restlessly ! 

Nor higher place can be assigned to him 
And his compeers — the laughing Sage of 

France. — 
Crowned was he, if my memory do not err. 
With laurel planted upon hoary hairs, 
In sign of conquest by his wit achieved 
And benefits his wisdom had conferred ; 
His stooping body tottered with wreaths of 

flowers 
Opprest, far less becoming ornaments 
Than spring oft twines about a mouldering 

tree ; 
Yet so it pleased a fond, a vain, old Man, 
And a most frivolous people. Him I mean 
Who penned, to ridicule confiding faith, 
This sorry Legend ; which by chance we 

found 
piled in a nook, through malice, as might 

seem. 
Among more innocent rubbish." — Speaking 

tiius, 



With a brief notice when, and how, and 

where. 
We had espied the book, he drew it forth ; 
And courteously, as if the act removed, 
At once, all traces from the good Man's 

heart 
Of unbenign aversion or contempt, 
Restored it to its owner. " Gentle Friend," 
Herewith he grasped the Solitary 's hand, 
" Vou have known lights and guides better 

than these. 
Ah ! let not aught amiss within dispose 
A noble mind to practise on herself. 
And tempt opinion to support the wrongs 
Of passion : whatsoe'er be felt or feared. 
From higher judgment-seats make no ap- 
peal 
To lower : can you question that the soul 
Inherits an allegiance, not by choice 
To be cast off, upon an oath proposed 
By each new upstart notion 1 In the ports 
Of levity no refuge can be found. 
No shelter, for a spirit in distress. 
He who by wilful disesteem of life 
And proud insensibility to hope, 
Affronts the eye of Solitude, shall learn 
That her mild nature can be terrible ; 
That neither she nor Silence lack the power 
To avenge their own insulted majesty. 

O blest seclusion ! when the mind ad- 
raits 
The law of duty ; and can therefore move 
Through each vicissitude of loss and gain. 
Linked in entire complacence with her 

choice ; 
When youth's presumptuousness is mel- 
lowed down. 
And manhood's vain anxiety dismissed ; 
When wisdom shows her seasonable fruit, 
Upon the boughs of sheltering leisure hung 
In sober plenty ; when the spirit stoops 
To drink with gratitude the crystal stream 
Of unreproved enjoyment ; and is pleased 
To muse, and be saluted by the air 
Of meek repentance, wafting wall-flower 

scents 
From out the crumbling ruins of fallen 

pride 
And chambers of transgression, now for- 
lorn. 
O, calm contented days, and peaceful 

nights ! 
Who, when such good can be obtained, 

would strive 
To reconcile his manhood to a couch 
Soft, as may seem, but, under that disguise^ 



G4G 



THE EXCURSION-. 



^ 



Stuffed with the thorny substance of the 
p^st 

For fixed annoyance ; and full oft beset 

Witni floating dreams, black and disconso- 
late, 

The vapory phantoms of futurity ? 

Within the soul a faculty abides, 
That with interpositions, which would hide 
And darken, so can deal that they become 
Contmgencies of pomp ; and serve to exalt 
Her native brightness. As the ample noon, 
In the deep stillness of a summer even 
Rising behind a thick and lofty grove, 
Burns, like an unconsuming fire of light, 
in the green trees ; and, kindling on all 

sides 
Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil 
Into a substance glorious as her own, 
Yea, with her own incorporated, by power 
Capacious and serene : — Like power abides 
In man's celestial spirit ; virtue thus 
Sets forth and magnifies herself; thus feeds 
A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire. 
From the encumbrances of mortal life. 
From error, disappointment — nay, from 

And sometimes, so relenting justice wills, 
From palpable oppressions of despair." 

The Solitary by these words was touched 
With manifest emotion, and exclaimed ; 
" But how begin ? and whence ? — ' The 

Mind is free — 
Resolve,' the haughty Moralist would say, 
' This single act is all that we demand.' 
Alas ! such wisdom bids a creature fly 
Whose very sorrow is, that time liath shorn 
His natural wings ! — To friendship let him 

turn 
For succor ; but perhaps he sits alone 
On stormy waters, tossed in a Httle boat 
That holds but him, and can contain no 

more ! 
Religion tells of amity sublime 
Wi'.ich no condition can preclude ; of One 
Who sees all suffering, comprehends all 

wants, 
All weakness fathoms, can supply all needs : 
But is that bounty absolute ? — His gifts, 
Are they not, still, in some degree, rewards 
For acts of service ? Can his love extend 
To hearts that own not him? Willsliowers 

of grace. 
When in the sky no promise may be seen. 
Fall to refresh a parched aud withered land 



Or shall the groaning Spirit cast her load 
At the Redeemer's feet ? " 

In rueful tone, 
With some impatience in his mien, he 

spake : 
Back to my mmd rushed all that had been 

urged 
To calm the Sufferer when his story closed ; 
1 looked for counsel as unbending now ; 
But a discrimmatmg sympathy 
Stooped to this apt reply . — 

" As men from men 
Do, in the constitution of their souls, 
Differ, by mystery not to be explained ; 
And as we fall by various ways, and sink 
One deeper than another, self-condemned. 
Through manifold degrees of grief and 

shame ; 
So manifold and various arc the ways 
Of restoration, fashioned to the steps 
Of all infirmity, and tending all 
To the same })oint, attainable by all — 
Peace in ourselves, and union with our God. 
For you, assuredly, a hopeful road 
Lies open : we have heard from you a voice 
At every moment softened in its course 
By tenderness of heart ; have seen your 

eye. 
Even like an altar Ht by fire from heaven, 
Kindle before us. — Your discourse this day, 
That, like the fable, Lethe, wished to flow 
In creeping sadness, through oblivious 

shades 
Of death and night, has caught at every 

turn 
The colors of the sun. Access for you 
Is yet preserved to principles of truth, 
Which the imaginative Will upholds 
In seats of wisdom, not to be approached 
By the inferior Faculty that moulds, 
With her minute and speculative pains, 
Opinion, ever changing ! 

I have seen 
A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract 
Of inland ground, applying to his ear 
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell ; 
To which, in silence hushed, his very soul 
Listened intensely ; and his countenanca 

soon 
Brightened with joy ; for from within were 

heard 
Murmurings, whereby the monitor ex- 
pressed 
Mysterious union with its native sea. 
Even such a shell the universe itself 
Is to the ear of Faith ; and there are times, 
I doubt not, when to you it doth impart 



THE excursion: 



647 



Authentic tidings of invisible things ; 
Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power; 
And central peace, subsisting at the heart 
Of endless agitation. Here you stand, 
Adore, and worship, when you know it not ; 
Pious beyond the intention of your thought ; 
Devout above the meaning of your will. 
—Yes, you have felt, and may not cease to 

feel. 
The estate of man would be indeed forlorn 
If false conclusions of the reasoning power 
Made the eye blind, and closed the passages 
Through which the ear converses with the 

heart. 
Has not the soul, the being of your life, 
Received a shock of awful consciousness. 
In some calm season, when these lofty 

rocks 
And night's approach bring down the un- 
clouded sky. 
To rest upon their circumambient walls ; 
A temple framing of dimensions vast, 
And yet not too enormous for the sound 
Of human anthems, — choral song, or burst 
Sublime of instrumental harmony. 
To glorify the Eternal ! What if these 
Did never break the stillness that prevails 
Here, — if the solemn nightingale be n.ute, 
And the soft woodlark here did never chant 
Her vespers, — Nature fails not to provide 
Impulse and utterance. The whispering 

air 
Sends inspiration from the shadowy heights. 
And blind recesses of the caverned rocks ; 
The little rills, and waters numberless. 
Inaudible by daylight, blended their notes 
With the loud streams: and often, at the 

hour 
When issue forth the first pale stars, is 

heard, 
Within the circuit of this fabric huge, 
One voice — the solitary raven, flying 
Athwart the concave of the dark blue dome, 
Unseen, perchance above all power of 

sight— 
An iron knell ! with echoes from afar 
Faint — and still fainter — as the cry, with 

which 
The wanderer accompanies her flight 
Through the calm region, fades upon the 

ear, 
Diminishing by distance till it seemed 
To expire ; yet from the abyss is caught 

again. 
And yet again recovered ! 

But descending 
From these imaginative heightSj that yield 



Far-stretching views into eternity. 
Acknowledge tliat to Nature's humble power 
Your cherished sullenness is forced to bend 
Even here, where her amenities are sown 
With sparing hand. Then trust yourself 

abroad [fields, 

To range her blooming bowers, and spacious 
Where on the labours of the happy throng 
She smiles, including in her wild embrace 
City, and town, and tower, — and sea with 

ships 
Sprinkled ; — be our Companion while we 

track 
Her rivers populous with gliding life ; 
While, free as air, o'er printless sands we 

march, 
Or pierce the gloom of her majestic woods ; 
Roaming, or resting under grateful shade 
In peace and meditative cheerfulness ; 
Where living things, and things inanimate. 
Do speak, at Heaven's command, to eye 

and ear. 
And speak to social reason's inner sense, 
With inarticulate language. 

For, the Man-r- 
Who, in this spirit, communes with the 

Forms 
Of nature, who with understanding heart 
Both knows and loves such objects as excite 
No morbid passions, no disquietude. 
No vengeance, and no hatred — needs must 

feel 
The joy of that pure principle of love 
So deeply, that, unsatisfied with aught 
Less pure and exquisite, he cannot choose 
But seek for objects of a kindred love 
In fellow-natures and a kindred joy. 
Accordingly he by degrees perceives 
His feelings of aversion softened dowr ; 
A holy tenderness pervade his frame. 
His sanity of reason not impaired. 
Say rather, all his thoughts now flowing 

clear. 
From a clear fountain flowing, he looks 

round 
And seeks for good ; and finds the good he 

seeks : 
Until abhorrence and contempt are things 
He only knows by name ; and, if he hear, 
From other mouths, the language which 

they speak, 
He is compassionate ; and has no thought; 
No feeling, which can overcome his love. 

And further; by contemplating these 
Forms 
In the relations which they bear to man, 



648 



THE EXCURSION', 



He shall discern, how, through the various 

means 
Which silently they yield, are multiplied 
The spiritual presence of absent things. 
Trust me, that for the instructed, time will 
come [teach 

When they shall meet no object but may 
Some acceptable lesson to their minds 
Of human suffering, or of human joy. 
So shall they learn, while all things speak 
of man, [laws, 

Their duties from all for-ms ; and general 
And local accidents, shall tend ahke 
To rouse, to urge ; and, with the will, confer 
Theabihty to spread the blessmgs wide 
Of true philanthropy. The light of love 
Not failing, perseverance from their steps 
Departing not, for them shall be confirmed 
The glorious habit by which sense is made 
Subservient still to moral purposes, 
Auxiliar to divine. That change shall 

clothe 
The naked spirit, ceasing to deplore 
The burthen of existence. Science then 
Shall be a precious visitant ; and then, 
And only then, be worthy of her name: 
For then her heart shall kindle her dull eye. 
Dull and inanimate, no more shall hang 
Chained to its object in brute slavery ; 
But taught with patient interest to watch 
The process of things, and serve the cause 
Of order and distinctness, not for this 
Shall it forget that its most noble use. 
Its most illustrious province, must be found 
In furnishing clear guidance, a support 
Not treacherous to the mind's excursive 

power. 
— So build we up the Being that we are ; 
Thus deeply drinking-in the soul of things, 
We shall be wise perforce ; and while in- 
spired [free 
By choice, and conscious that the Will is 
Shall move unswerving, even as if im- 
pelled 
By strict necessity, along the path 
Of order and of good. Whate'er we see, 
Or feel, shall tend to quicken and refine ; 
Shall fix, in calmer seats of moral strength, 
Earthly desires ; and raise, to loftier heights 
Of divine love, our intellectual soul." 

Here closed the Sage that eloquent har- 
angue, [stream, 
Poured forth with fervor in continuous 
Such as, remote, mid savage wilderness, 
An Indian Chief discliarges from his breast 
Into the hearing of assembled tribes, 



In open circle seated round, and hushed 
As the unbreathing air, when not a leaf 
Stirs in the mighty woods. — So did h« 

speak : 
The words he uttered shall not pass away 
Dispersed, like music that the wind takes up 
By snatches, and lets fall, to be forgotten ; 
No — they sank into me, tlie bounteous gift 
Of one whom time and nature had made 

wise. 
Gracing his doctrine with authority 
Which hostile spirits silently allow ; 
Of one accustomed to desires that feed 
On fruitage gathered from the tree of life ; 
To hopes on knowledge and experience 

built ; 
Of one in whom persuasion and belief 
Had ripened into faith, and faith become 
A passionate intuition ; whence the Soul, 
Though bound to earth by ties of pity and 

love, 
From all injurious servitude was free. 

The Sun, before his place of rest were 

reached, 
Had yet to travel far, but unto us. 
To us who stood low in tliat hollow dell, 
He had become invisible, — a pomp 
Leaving behind of yellow radiance spread 
Over the mountain sides, in contrast bold 
With ample shadows, seemingly, no less 
Than those resplendent lights, liis rich be- 
quest ; 
A dispensation of his evening power. 
— A down the path that from the glen had 

led [Mate 

The funeral train, the Shepherd and his 
Were seen descending : — forth to greet them 

ran 
Our little Page : the rustic pair approach ; 
And in the Matron's countenance may be 

read 
Plain indication that the words, which told 
How that neglected Pensioner was sent 
Before his time into a quiet grave, 
Had done to her humanity no wrong : 
But we are kindly welcomed — promptly 

served 
With ostentatious zeal. — Along the floor 
Of tlie small Cottage in the lonely Dell 
A grateful couch was spread for our repose ; 
Where, in the guise of mountaineers, we 

lay, [sound 

Stretched upon fragrant heath, and lulled by 
Of far-off torrents charming the still night. 
And. to tired limbs and over-busy thought*, 
Inviting sleep and soft forgetf ulne&B. 



THE EXCURSION. 



649 



BOOK FIFTH. 



THE PASTOR. 

ARGUMENT. 

Farewell to the Valley— Reflections— A )?.rge 
and populous Vale described — The Pastor's 
Dwelling, and some account of him — Church 
and Monuments — The Solitary musing, and 
where — Roused — In the Churchyard the 
Solitary communicates the thoughts which 
had recently passed through iiis 'nind — Lofty 
tone of the Wanderer's discoijvse of yester- 
day adverted to — Rite of Baj>fism, and the 
professions accompanying it» contrasted with 
the real state of human life- -Apology for the 
Rite — Inconsistency of the best men — Ac- 
knowledgment that practice falls far below 
the injunctions of duty as existing in the 
mind — General complaint of a falling-off in 
the value of life after the time of youth — 
Outward appearances of content and happi- 
ness in degree illusive — Pastor approaches — 
Appeal made to him — His answer — Wan- 
derer in sympathy with him — Suggestion 
that the least ambitious enquirers may be 
most free from error — The Pastor is desired 
to give some portraits of the living or dead 
from his own observation of life among 
these Mountains — and for what purpose 
— Pastor consents — Moui>tain cottage — 
Excellent qualities of its Inhabitants — 
Solitary expresses his pleasure ; but denies 
the praise of virtue to worth of this kind — 
Feelings of the Priest before he enters upon 
^ his account of persons interred in the Church- 
yard — Graves of unbaptized Infants — Fu- 
neral and sepulchral observances, whence — 
Ecclesiastical Establishments, whence de- 
rived—Profession of belief in the doctrine of 
Immortality. 

" Farewell, deep Valley, with thy one 

rude House, 
And its small lot of life-supporting fields, 
And guardian rocks ! — Farewell, attractive 

seat ! 
To the still influx of the morning ^igl">t 
Open, and day's pure cheerfulness, but 

veiled 
From human observation, as if yet 
Primeval forests wrapt tliee round with dark 
Impenetrable shade ; once more farewell, 
Majestic circuit, beautiful abyss, 
By Nature destined from the birth of things 
For quietness profound ! " 

Upon the side 

Of that brown ridge, &ole mW^X of the vale 



Which foot of boldest stranger would at- 
tempt, 
Lingering behind my comrades, thus I 

breathed 
A parting tribute to a spot that seemed 
j Like the fixed centre of a troubled world. 
1 Again I halted with reverted eyes ; 
The chain that would not slacken, was at 

length 
Snapt, — and, pursuing leisurely my way, 
How vain, thought I, is it by change of 

place 
To seek that comfort which the mind 

denies ; 
Yet trial and temptation oft are shunned 
Wisely ; and by such tenure do we hold 
Frail life's possessions, that even they whos« 

fate 
Yields no peculiar reason of complaint 
Might, by the promise that is here, be won 
To steal from active duties, and embrace 
Obscurity, and undisturbed repose. 
— Knowledge, methinks, in these disordered 

times, 
Should be allowed a privilege to have 
Her anchorites, like piety of old ; 
Men who, from faction sacred, and un- 
stained 
By war, might, if so minded, turn aside 
Uncensured, and subsist, a scattered few 
Living to God and nature, and content 
With that communion. Consecrated be 
The spots where such abide ! But happier 

still 
The Man, whom, furthermore, a hope attends 
That meditation and research may guide 
His privacy to principles and powers 
Discovered or invented ; or set forth, 
Through his acquaintance with the ways of 

truth, 
In lucid order; so that, when his course 
Is run, some faithful eulogist may say, 
He sought not praise, and praise did over- 
look 
His unobtrusive merit ; but his life, 
Sweet to himself, was exercised in good 
That shall survive his name and memory 

Acknowledgments of gratitude sincere 
Accompanied these musings ; fervent 

thanks 
Fpr my own peaoef ul Jot and happy choice { 



650 



THE EXCURSION. 



A choice that from the passions of the 

world 
Withdrew, and fixed me in a still retreat ; 
Sheltered, but not to social duties lost, 
Secluded, but not buried ; and with son 
Cheering my days, and with industrious 

thought ; 
Witli the ever-welcome company of books ; 
With virtuous friendship's soul-sustaining 

aid. 
And with the blessings of domestic love. 

Thus occupied in mind I paced along, 
Following the rugged road, by sledge or 

wheel 
Worn in the moorland, till I overtook 
My two Associates, in the morning sunshine 
Halting together on a rocky knoll, 
Whence the bare road ascended rapidly 
To the green meadows of another vale. 

Here did our pensive Host put forth his 

hand 
In sign of farewell. " Nay," the old Man 

said, 
*' The fragrant air its coolness still retains ; 
The herds and flocks are yet abroad to crop 
The dewy grass : you cannot leave us now. 
We must not part at this inviting hour." 
He yielded, though reluctant ; for his mind 
Instinctively disposed him to retire 
To his own covert ; as a billow, heaved 
Upon the beach, rolls back into the sea. 
— So we descend : and winding round a 

rock 
Attained a point that showed the valley — 

stretched 
In length before us ; and, not distant far, 
Upon a rising-ground a gray church-tower. 
Whose battlements were screened by tufted 

trees. 
And towards a crystal Mere, that lay beyond 
Among steep hills and woods embosomed, 

flowed 
A copious stream with boldly-winding 

course ; 
Here traceable, there hidden — there again 
To sight restored, and glittering in the sun. 
On the stream's bank, and everywhere ap- 
peared 
Fair dwellings, single, or in social knots ; 
Some scattered o'er the level, others perched 
On the hill-side, a cheerful quiet scene, 
Now in its morning purity arrayed. 

"As 'mid some happy valley of the Alps," 
Said I, " once happy, ere tyrannic power, 
Wantonly breaking it upon the Swiss, 



Destroyed their unoffending commonwealth, 

A popular equality reigns here. 

Save for yon stately House beneath whose 

roof 
A rural lord might dwell." — " No feudal 

pomp, 
Or power," replied the Wanderer, " to that 

House 
Belongs but there in his allotted Home 
Abides, from year to year, a genuine Priest, 
The shepherd of his fiock ; or, as a king 
Is styled, when most affectionately praised, 
The father of his people. Such is he ; 
And rich and poor, and young and old, 

rejoice 
Under his spiritual sway. He hath vouch- 
safed 
To me some portion of a kind regard ; 
And something also of his inner mind 
Hath he imparted — but I speak of him 
As he is known to all. 

The calm delights 
Of unambitious piety he cliose, 
And learning's solid dignity ; though born 
Of kniglitly race, nor wanting powerful 

friends 
Hither, in prime of manhood, he withdrew 
From academic bowers. He loved the 

spot — 
Who does not love his native soil ? — he 

prized 
The ancient rural character, composed 
Of simple manners, feeling unsupprest 
And undisguised, and strong and serious 

thought ; 
A character reflected in himself, 
With such embellishment as well beseems 
His rank and sacred function. This deep 

vale 
Winds far in reaches hidden from our sight, 
And one a turreted manorial hall 
Adorns, in which the good Man's ancestors, 
Have dwelt through ages — Patrons of this 

Cure, 
To them, and to his own judicious pains, 
The Vicar's dwelling, and the whole domain, 
Owes that presiding aspect which might 

well 
Attract your notice ; statelier than could else 
Have been bestowed, through course of 

common chance. 
On an unwealthy mountain Benefice." 

This said, oft pausing, we pursued our 
way; 
Nor reached the village-churchyard till tht 



THE EXCURSION, 



€'51 



Travelling at steadier pace than ours, had 

risen 
Above the summits of the highest hills, 
And round our path darted oppressive 

beams. 

As chanced, the portals of the sacred Pile 
Stood open ; and we entered. On my frame, 
At such transition from the fervid air, 
A grateful coolness fell, that seemed to 

strike 
The heart, in concert with that temperate 

awe 
And natural reverence which the place in- 
spired. 
Not raised in nice proportions was the pile, 
But large and massy ; for duration built ; 
With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld 
By naked rafters intricately crossed. 
Like leafless underboughs, in some thick 

wood, 
All withered by the depth of shade above. 
Admonitory texts inscribed the walls, 
Each in its ornamental scroll enclosed ; 
Each also crowned with winged heads — a 

pair 
Of rudely-painted Cherubim, The floor 
Of nave and aisle, in unpretending guise. 
Was occupied by oaken benches ranged 
In seemly rows ; the chancel only showed 
Some vain distinctions, marks of earthly 

state 
By immemorial privilege allowed ;• 
Though with the Encincture's special sanc- 
tity 
But ill according. An heraldic shield, 
Varying its tincture with the changeful light. 
Imbued the altar-window ; fixed aloft 
A faded hatchment hung, and one by time 
Yet undiscolored, A capacious pew 
Of sculptured oak stood here, with drapery 

lined ; 
And m.arble monuments were here displayed 
Thronging the walls ; and on the floor 

beneath 
Sepulchral stones appeared, with emblems 

graven 
And foot-worn epitaphs, and some with 

small 
And shining effigies of brass inlaid. 

The tribute by these various records 
claimed 
Duly we paid, each after each, and read 
The ordinary chronicle of birth, 
Office, alliance, and promotion — all 
Ending in dust ; of upright magistrates, 



Grave doctors strenuous for the mothe^ 

church. 
And uncorrupted senators, alike 
To king and people true. A brazen plate, 
Not easily deciphered, told of one 
Whose course of earthly honor was begun 
In quality of page among the train 
Of the eighth Henry, when he crossed the 

seas 
His royal state to show, and prove his 

strength 
In tournament, upon the fields of France. 
Another tablet registered the death, 
And praised the gallant bearing, of a Knight 
Tried in the sea-fights of a second Charles. 
Near this brave Knight his Father lay en- 
tombed ; 
And, to the silent language giving voice, 
I read, — how in his manhood's earlier day 
He, 'mid the afflictions of intestine war 
And rightful government subverted, found 
One only solace — that he had espoused 
A virtuous Lady tenderly beloved 
For her benign perfections ; and yet more 
Endeared to him for this, that, in her state 
Of wedlock richly crowned with Heaven's 

regard. 
She with a numerous issue filled his house, 
Who throve, like plants, uninjured by ths 
storm [speak 

That laid their country waste. No need ♦^ 
Of less particular notices assigned 
To Youth or Maiden gone before their time, 
And Matrons and unwedded Sisters old; 
Whose charity and goodness were rehearsed 
In modest panegyric. 

" These dim lines, 
What would they tell ? " said I,— but, from 

the task 
Of puzzling out that faded narrative, 
With whisper soft my venerable Friend 
Called me ; and, looking down the dark- 
some aisle, 
I saw the Tenant of the lonely vale 
Standing apart; with curved arm reclined 
On the baptismal font ; his pallid face 
Upturned, as if his mind were rapt, or lost 
In some abstraction ;— gracefully lie stood, 
The semblance bearing of a sculptured 

form 
That leans upon a monumental urn 
In peace, from mom to night, from year tt 
year. 

Him from that posture did the SextoB 
rouse ; 
Who entered, humming carelesely a tunci 



6^2 



THE EXCURSIOJV. 



Continuation haply of the notes 

That had beguiled the work from which he 

came, 
With spade and mattock o'er his shoulder 

hung ; 
To be deposited, for future need, 
In their appointed place. The pale Recluse 
Withdrew ; and straight we followed, — to a 

spot 
Where sun and shade were intermixed ; for 

there 
A broad oak, stretcliing forth its leafy arms 
From an adjoining pasture, overhung 
Small space of that green churchyard with a 

light 
And pleasant awning. On the moss-grown 

wall 
My ancient Friend and I together took 
Our seats ; and thus the Solitary spake, 
Standing before us : — 

" Did you note the mien 
Of that self-solaced, easy-hearted churl, 
Peath's hireling, who scoops out his neigh- 
bor's grave. 
Or wraps an old acquaintance up in clay, 
All unconcerned as he would bind a sheaf, 
Or plant a tree. And did you hear his 

voice ? 
I was abruptly summoned by the sound 
From some affecting images and thoughts, 
Which then were silent : but crave utter- 



Much,'' he continued, with dejectea iOOK, 
* Much yesterday, was said in glowing 

phrase 
Of our sublime dependencies, and hopes 
For future state of being ; and the wings 
Of speculation, joyfully outspread, 
Hovered above our destiny on earth : 
But stoop, and place the prospect of the soul 
In sober contrast with reality. 
And man's substantial life. If this mute 

earth 
Of what it holds could speak, and every 

grave 
Were as a volume, shut, yet capable 
Of yielding its contents to eye and ear, 
We should recoil, stricken with sorrow and 

shame, 
To see disclosed by such dread proof, how 

ill 
That which is done accords with what is 

known 
To reason, and by conscience is enjoined ; 
How idly, how perversely, life's whole course} 
To this coijglugioBj 4eYi^te§ from tU? Imej 



Or of the end stops short, proposed to all 
At her aspiring outset. 

Mark the babe 
Not long accustomed to this breathing worldj 
One that hath barely learned to shape a 

smile, 
Though yet irrational of soul, to grasp 
With tiny finger — to let fall a tear ; 
And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, 
To stretch his limbs, bemocking, as might 

seem, 
The outward functions of intelligent man ; 
A grave proficient in amusive feats 
Of puppetry, that from the lap declare 
His expectations, and announce his claims 
To that inheritance which millions rue 
That they were ever born to ! In due time 
A day of solemn ceremonial comes; 
When they, who for this Minor hold in trust 
Rights that transcend the loftiest heritage 
Of mere humanity, present their Charge, 
For this occasion damtily adorned, 
At the baptismal font. And when the pure 
And consecrating element hath cleansed 
The original stain, the child is there received 
Into the second ark, Christ's church, with 

trust [float 

That he, from wrath redeemed, therein shall 
Over the billows of this troublesome world 
To the fair land of everlasting life. 
Corrupt affections, covetoas desires. 
Are all renounced ; high as the thought ot 

man 
Can carry virtue, virtue is professed ; 
A dedication made, a promise given 
For due provision to control and guide, 
And unremitting progress to ensure 
In holiness and truth." 

" You cannot blame," 
Here interposing fervently I said, 
" Rites which attest that Man by nature lies 
Bedded for good and evil in a gulf 
Fearfully low ; nor will your judgment 

scorn 
Those services, whereby attempt is made 
To lift the creature toward that eminence 
On which, now fallen, erewhile in majesty 
He stood ; or if not so, whose top serene 
At least he feels 'tis given him to descry ; 
Not without aspirations, evermore 
Returning, and injunctions from within 
Doubt to cast off and weariness ; in trust 
That what the Soul perceives, if glory lost, 
May be, through pains and persevering hope, 
Recovered ; or, if hitherto unknown. 
Lies within reagh, m<^ PH^ 4fty §hs^U ||| 



THE EXCURSIO.V. 



653 



" I blame them not," he cahnly ansv.-ered 

— " no ; 
The outward ritual and established forms 
With whicli communities of men invest 
These inward feelings, and the aspiring vows 
To which the lips give public utterance 
Are both a natural process ; and by me 
Shall pass uncensured; though the issue 

prove. 
Bringing from age to age its own reproach, 
Incongruous, impotent, and blank. — But, oh ! 
If to be weak is to be wretched — miserable, 
As the lost Angel by a human voice 
Hath mournfully pronounced, then, in my 

mind. 
Far better not to move at all tlian move 
By impulse sent from such illusive pcwer, — 
That finds and cannot fasten down ; that 

grasps 
And is rejoiced, and loses while it grasps ; 
That tempts, emboldens — for a time sustains, 
And then betrays : accuses and inflicts 
Remorseless punishment ; and so retreads 
The inevitable circle : better far 
Than this, to graze the herb in thoughtless 

peace, 
By foresight or remembrance undisturbed ! 

Philosophy ! and thou more vaunted 

name. 
Religion ! with thy statelier retinue. 
Faith, Hope, and Charity — from the visible 

world 
Choose for your emblems whatsoe'er ye find 
Of safest guidance or of firmest trust — 
The torch, the star, the anchor ; nor except 
The cross itself, at whose unconscious feet 
The generations of mankind have knelt 
Ruefully seized, and shedding bitter tears. 
And through that conflict seeking rest — of 

you, 
High-titled Powers, am I constrained to ask. 
Here standing, with tlie unvoyageable sky 
In faint reflection of infinitude 
Stretched overhead, and at my pensive feet 
A subterraneous magazine of bones, 
In whose dark vaults my own shall soon be 

laid, [where ? 

Where are your triumphs ? your dominion 
And in what age admitted and confirmed ? 
— Not for a happy land do I enquire, 
Island or grove, that hides a blessed few 
Who, with obedience willing and sincere, 
To your serene authorities conform ; 
But whom, I ask, of indi\idual Souls, 
Have ye withdrawn from passion's crooked 

ways, 



Inspired, and thoroughly fortified? — If thi 

heart 
Could be inspected to its inmost folds 
By sight undazzled with the glare of praise, 
Who shall be named — in the resplendent 

line 
Of sages, martyrs, confessors — the man 
Whom the best might of faith, whereve* 

fix'd. 
For one day's little compass, has preserved 
From painful and discreditable shocks 
Of contradiction, from some vague desire 
Culpably cherished, or corrupt relapse 
To some unsanctioned fear ? " 

" If this be so. 
And Man," said I, ''be in his noblest shape 
Thus pitiably infirm ; then, he who made. 
And who shall judge the creature, will for- 
give. 
— Yet, in its general tenor, your complaint 
Is all too true ; and surely not misplaced : 
For, from this pregnant spot of ground, such 

thoughts 
Rise to tlie notice of a serious mind 
By natural exhalation. With the dead 
In their repose, the living in their mirth, 
Who can reflect, unmoved, upon the round 
Of smooth and solemnized complacencies, 
By which, on Christian lands, from age to 

age 
Profession mocks performance.-' Earth is 

sick. 
And Heaven is weary, of the hollow words 
Wliich States and Kingdoms utter when 

they talk 
Of truth and justice. Turn to private life 
And social neighborhood ; look we to our- 
selves ; 
A light of duty shines on every day 
For all ; and yet how few are warmed or 

cheered ! 
How few who mingle with their fellow-men 
And still remain self-governed, and apart, 
Like this our honored Friend ; and thence 

acquire 
Right to expect his vigorous decline. 
That promises to the end a blest old age 1 

" Yet," with a smile of triumph thus ex- 
claimed 
The Solitary, " in the life of man. 
If to the poetry of common speech 
Faith may be given, we see as in a glass 
A true reflection of the circling year. 
With all its seasons. Grant that Spring is 

there, 
In spite of many a rough untoward bUst, 



^54 



THE EXCURSION. 



Hopeful and promising with buds and 

flowers ; 
Yet where is glowing Summer's long rich 

day, 
That ought to follow faithfully expressed ? 
And mellow Autumn, charged with bounteous 

fruit, 
Where is she imaged ? in what favored clime 
Her lavish pomp, and ripe magnificence ? 
»— Yet, while the better part is missed, the 

worse 
In man's autumnal season is set forth 
With a resemblance not to be denied, 
And that contents him; bowers that hear 

no more 
The voice of gladness, less and less supply 
Of outward sunshine and internal warmth ; 
And, with this change, sharp air and falling 

leaves. 
Foretelling aged Winter's desolate sway. 

How gay the habitations that bedeck 
This fertile valley ! Not a house but seems 
To give assurance of content within ; 
Embosomed happiness, and placid love ; 
As if the sunshine of the day were met 
With answering brightness in the hearts of 

all 
Who walk this favored ground. But chance- 
regards, 
And notice forced upon incurious ears ; 
These, if these only, acting in despite 
Of the encomiums by my Friend pronounced 
On humble life, forbid the judging mind 
To trust the smiling aspect of this fair 
And noiseless commonwealth. The simple 

race 
Of mountaineers (by nature's self removed 
From foul temptations, and by constant care 
Of a good shepherd tended as themselves 
Do tend their flocks) partake man's general 

lot 
With little mitigation. They escape. 
Perchance, the heavier woes of guilt ; feel 

not 
The tedium of fantastic idleness : 
Y et life, as with the multitude, with them 
Is fashioned like an ill-constructed tale ; 
That on the outset wastes its gay desires, 
Its fair adventures, its enlivening hoces. 
And pleasant interests — for the sequel 

leaving 
Old things repeated with diminished grace ; 
And all the labored novelties at best 
Imperfect substitutes, whose use and power 
Evince the want and weakness whence they 

spring." 



While in this serious mood we held di» 

course, 
The reverend Pastor toward the church- 
yard gate 
Approached : and, with a mild respectful ail 
Of native cordiality, our Friend 
Advanced to greet him. With a gracious 

mien 
Was he received, and mutual joy prevailed. 
Awhile they stood ■ in conference, and 1 

guess 
That he, who now upon the mossy wall 
Sate by my side, had vanished, if a wish 
Could liave transferred him to the flying 

clouds. 
Or the least penetrable hiding-place 
In his own valley's rocky guardianship. 
— For me, I looked upon the pair, well 

pleased : 
Nature had framed them both, and both 

were marked 
By circumstance, with intermixture fine 
Of contrast and resemblance. To an oak 
Hardy and grand, a weather-beaten oak, 
Fresh in the strength and majesty of age, 
One might be likened : flourishing appeared, 
Though somewhat past the fulness of his 

prime. 
The other — like a stately sycamore. 
That spreads, in gentle pomp, its honied 

shade. 

A general greeting was exchanged ; and 
soon 
The Pastor learned that his approach had 

given 
A welcome interruption to discourse 
Grave, and in truth too often sad. — " Is Man 
A child of hope ? Do generations press 
On generations, without progress made ? 
Halts the individual, ere his hairs be gray. 
Perforce ? Are we a creature in whom good 
Preponderates, or evil ? Doth the will 
Acknowledge reason's law ? A living power 
Is virtue, or no better than a name. 
Fleeting as health or beauty, and unsound ? 
So that the only substance which remains 
(For thus the tenor of complaint hath run) 
Among so many shadows, are the pains 
And penalties of miserable life, 
Doomed to decay, and then expire in dust 1 
— Our cogitations this way have been drawn, 
These are the points," the Wanderer said, 

" on which 
Our inquest turns. — Accord, good Sir ! the 

light 
Of your experience to dispel this gloom ; 



THE EXCURSION. 



&5S 



By your persuasive wisdom shall the heart 
That frets or languishes, be stilled and 
cheered." 

" Our nature," said the Priest, in mild 
reply, 
" Angels may weigh and fathom : they per- 
ceive. 
With undistempercd and unclouded spirit, 
The object as it is ; but, for ourselves. 
That speculative height we may not reach. 
The good and evil are our own ; and we 
Are that which we would contemplate from 

Knowledge, for us, is difficult to gain — 
Is difficult to gain, and hard to keep — 
As virtue's self ; like virtue is beset 
With snares ; tried, tempted, subject to 

decay. 
Love, admiration, fear, desire, and hate, 
Blind were we without these : through these 

alone 
Are capable to notice or discern 
Or to record ; we judge, but cannot be 
Indifferent judges. Spite of proudest boast, 
Reason, best reason, is to imperfect man 
An effort only, and a noble aim ; 
A crown, an attribute of sovereign power. 
Still to be courted — never to be won. 
— Look forth, or each man dive into him- 
self ; 
What sees he but a creature too perturbed ; 
That is transported to itself ; that yearns, 
Regrets, or trembles, wrongly, or too much ; 
Hopes rashly, in disgust as rash recoils ; 
Battens on spleen, or moulders in despair? 
Thus comprehension fails, and truth is 

missed ; 
Thus darkness and delusion round our path 
Spread, from disease, whose subtle injury 

lurks 
Within the very faculty of sight. 

Yet for the general purposes of fai*^^h 
In Providence, for solace and support, 
We may not doubt that who can best sub- 
ject 
The will to reason's law, can strictliest live 
And act in that obedience, he shall gain 
The clearest apprehension of those truths 
Which unassisted reason's utmost power 
Is too infirm to reach. But, waiving this. 
And our regards confining within bounds 
Of less exalted consciousness, through 

which 
The very multitude are free to range. 
We safely may affirm that human life 



Is either fair and tempting, a soft scene 
Grateful to sight, refreshing to the soul. 
Or a forbidden tract of cheerless view ; 
Even as the same is looked at or ap« 

proached. 
Thus, when in changeful April fields are 

white 
With new-fallen snow, if from the sullen 

north 
Your walk conduct you hither, ere the sun 
Hath gained his noontide height, this 

churchyard, filled 
With mounds transversely lying side by 

side 
From east to west, before you will appear 
An unillumined, blank, and dreary plain. 
With more than wintry cheerlessness and 

gloom 
Saddening the heart. Go forward, and look 

back ; 
Look, from the quarter whence the lord of 

light, 
Of life, of love, and gladness doth dispense 
His beams ; which, unexcluded in their 

fall, 
Upon the southern side of every grave 
Have gently exercised a melting power ; 
Then will a vernal prospect greet your eye. 
All fresh and beautiful, and green and 

bright, 
Hopeful and cheerful : — vanished is the pall 
That overspread and chilled the sacred 

turf. 
Vanished or hidden ; and the whole do- 
main, 
To some, too lightly minded, might appear 
A meadow carpet for the dancing hours. 
— This contrast, not unsuitable to life. 
Is to that other state more apposite. 
Death and its two-fold aspect ! wintry — 

one, [out ; 

Cold, sullen, blank, from hope and joy shut 
The other, which the ray divine hath 

touched. 
Replete with vivid promise, bright as 

spring." 

" We sec, then, as we feel," the Wanderer 

thus 
With a complacent animation spake ; 
•' And in your judgment, Sir 1 the mind's 

repose 
On evidence is not to be ensured 
By act of naked reason. Moral truth 
Is no mechanic structure, built by rule ; 
And which, once built, retains a steadfast 

shape 



656 



THE EXCURSION-. 



And undisturbed proportions ; but a thing 
Subject, you deem, to vital accidents ; 
And, like the water-lily, lives and thrives, 
Whose root is fixed in stable earth, whose 

head 
Floats on the tossing waves. With joy 

sincere 
I re-salute these sentiments confirmed 
By your authority. But how acquire 
The inward principle that gives effect 
To outward argument ; the passive will 
Meek to admit ; the active energy, 
Strong and unbounded to embrace, and 

firm 
To keep and cherish ? how shall man unite 
With self-forgetting tenderness of heart 
An earth-despising dignity of soul ? 
Wise in that union, and without it blind ! " 

" The way,'' said I, " to court, if not ob- 
tain 
The ingenuous mind, apt to be set aright ; 
This, in the lonely dell discoursing, you 
Declared at large ; and by what exercise 
From visible nature or the inner self 
Power may be trained, and renovation 

brought 
To tliose who need the gift. But, after all. 
Is aught so certain as that man is doomed 
To breathe beneath a vault of ignorance ? 
The natural roof of that dark house in 

which 
His soul is pent ! How little can be 

known — 
This is the wise man's sigh ; how far we 

err — 
This is the good man's not unfrequent 

pang! 
And they perhaps err least, the lowly class 
Whom a benign necessity compels 
To follow reason's least ambitious course ; 
Such do I mean who, unperplexed by doubt, 
And unincited by a wish to look 
Into high objects farther than they may, 
Pace to and fro, from morn till even-tide, 
The narrow avenue of daily toil 
For daily bread." 

" Yes,'' buoj^antly exclaimed 
The pale Recluse — " praise to the sturdy 

plough, 
And patient spade ; praise to the simple 

crook. 
And ponderous loom — resounding while it 

holds 
Body and mind in one captivity ; 
And let the light mechanic tool be hailed 
With honor ; which, encasing by the power 



Of long companionship the artist's hand, 
Cuts off that hand, with all its world ol 

nerves. 
From a too busy commerce with the heart ! 
— Inglorious implements of craft and toil. 
Both ye that shape and build, and ye that 

force. 
By slow solicitation, earth to yield 
Her annual bounty, sparingly dealt forth 
With wise reluctance ; you would I extol, 
Not for gross good alone which ye produce. 
But for the impertinent and ceaseless strife 
Of proofs and reasons ye preclude — in those 
Who to your dull society are born, 
And with their humble birthright rest con- 
tent. 
— Would I had ne'er renounced it ! " 

A slight flush 
Of moral anger previously had tinged 
The old Man's cheek ; but at this closing 

turn 
Of self-reproach, it passed away. Said he, 
" That which we feel we utter ; as we think 
So have we argued ; reaping for our pains 
No visible recompense. For our relief 
You," to the Pastor turning thus he spake, 
" Have kindly interposed. May I entreat 
Your further help 1 The mine of real life 
Dig tor us ; and present us, in the shape 
Of virgin ore, that gold which we, by paina 
Fruitless as those of aery alchemists, 
Seek from the torturing crucible. There 

lies 
Around us a domain where you have long 
Watched both the outward course and inner 

heart : 
Give us, for our abstractions, solid facts ; 
Yox our disputes, plain pictures. Say what 

man 
He is who cultivates yon hanging field ; 
What qualities of mind she bears who 

comes. 
For morn and evening service, with her 

pail. 
To that green pasture ; place before our 

sight ' 
The family who dwell within yon house 
Fenced round with glittering laurel ; or in 

that 
Below, from which the curling smoke as- 
cends. 
Or rather, as we stand on holy earth. 
And have the dead around us, take from 

them 
Your instances ; for they are both beet 

known, 
And by frail man most equitably judged. 



THE EXCURSIOI^. 



^57 



Epitomize the life, pronounce, you can, 
Authentic epitaphs on some of these 
Who, from their lowly mansions hither 

brought. 
Beneath this turf lies mouldering at our feet 
So, by your records, may our doubts be 

solved ; 
And so, not searching higher, we may learn 
To prize the breath u<e share with human 

kind : 
And look tifo7i the dust of man with awe.'" 

The Priest replied—" An office you im- 
pose 
For which peculiar requisites are mine ; 
Yet much, I feel, is wanting — else the task 
Would be most grateful. True indeed it is 
That they whom death has hidden from our 

sight 
Are worthiest of the mind's regard ; with 

these 
The future cannot contradict the past : 
Mortality's last exercise and proof 
Is undergone ; the transit made that shows 
The very Soul, revealed as she departs. 
Yet, on your first suggestion, will I give, 
Ere we descend into these silent vaults. 
One picture from the living. 

You behold. 
High on the breast of yon dark mountain, 

dark 
With stony barrenness, a shining speck 
Bright as a sunbeam sleeping till a shower 
Brush it away, or cloud pass over it ; 
And such it might be deemed — a sleeping 

sunbeain ; 
But'tis a plot of cultivated ground, 
Cut off, an island in the dusky waste ; 
And that attractive brightness is its own. 
The lofty sight, by nature framed to tempt 
Amid a wilderness of rocks and stones 
The tiller's hand, a hermit might have 

chosen, 
For opportunity presented thence 
Far forth to send his wandering eye o'er 

land 
And ocean, and look down upon the works, 
The habitj^tions, and the ways of men. 
Himself unseen ! But no tradition tells 
That ever hermit dipped his maple dish 
In the sweet spring that lurks 'mid yon 

green fields ; 
And no such visionary views belong 
To those who occupy and till the ground. 
High on that mountain where they long 

have dwelt 

h wedded pw m childless solitude, 



A house of stones collected on the spot, 
By rude hands built, with rocky knolls in 

front. 
Backed also by a ledge of rock, whose crest 
Of birch-trees waves over the chimney top ; 
A rough abode — in color, shape and size, 
Such as in unsafe times of border-war 
Might have been wished for and contrived, 

to elude 
The eye of roving plimderer — for their need 
Suffices ; and unshaken bears the assault 
Of their most dreaded foe, the strong South- 
west 
In anger blowing from the distant sea. 
— Alone within her solitary hut ; 
There, or withm the compass of her fields, 
At any moment may the Dame be found, 
True as the stock-dove to her shallow nest 
And to the grove that holds it. She be- 
guiles 
By intermingled work of house and field 
The summer's day, and winter's ; with suc- 
cess 
Not equal, but sufficient to maintain, 
Even at the worst, a smooth stream of con- 

tent. 
Until the expected hour at which her Mate 
From the far-distant quarry's vault returns ; 
And by his converse crowns a silent day 
With evening cheerfulness. In powers of 

mind, 
In scale of culture, few among my flock 
Hold lower rank than this sequestered pair : 
But true humility descends from heaven ; 
And that best gift of heaven hath fallen on 

them ; 
Abundant recompense for every want. 
— Stoop from your height, ye proud, and 

copy these 1 
Who, in their noiseless dwelling-place, can 

hear 
The voice of wisdom whispering scripture 

texts 
For the mind's government, or temper's 

peace ; 
And recommending for their mutual need, 
Forgiveness, patience, hope, and charity ! " 

" Much was I pleased," the gray-haired 

Wanderer said, 
" When to those shining fields our notice 

first 
You turned ; and yet more pleased have 

from your lips 
Gathered this fair report of them who dwell 
In that retirement ; whither, by such courgg 
Of evil hap and good as oft awaits 



658 



THE EXCURSTOJ^. 



A tired way-faring man, once / was brought 
While traversing alone yon mountain pass. 
Dark on my road the autumnal evening 

fell, 
And night succeeded with unusual gloom, 
So hazardous that feet ana hands became 
Guides better than mine eyes — until a light 
High in the gloom appeared, too high, me- 

thought, 
For human habitation ; but I longed 
To reach it, destitute of other hope. 
I looked with steadiness as sailors look 
On the north star, or watch-tower's distant 

lamp, 
And saw the light — now fixed — and shifting 

now — 
Not lilce a dancing meteor, but in line 
Of never-varying motion, to and fro. 
It is no night-fiie of the naked hills, 
Thought I — some friendly covert must be 

near. 
With this persuasion thitherward my steps 
I turn, and reach at last the guiding light ; 
Joy to myself ! but to the heart of her 
Who there was standing on the open hill, 
(The same kind Matron whom your tongue 

hath praised) 
Alarm and disappointment ! The alarm 
Ceased, when she learned tlirough what 

mishap I came, 
And bv what help had gained those distant 

fields. 
Drawn from her cottage, on that aery 

height. 
Bearing a lantern in her hand she stood, 
Or paced the ground — to guide her Husband 

home, 
By that unweary signal, kenned afar ; 
An anxious duty ! wliich the lofty site. 
Traversed but by a few irregular paths, 
Imposes, whensoe'er untoward chance 
Detains him after his accustomed hour 
Till night lies black upon the ground. * But 

come. 
Come,' said the Matron, ' to our poor abode ; 
Those dark rocks hide it ! ' Entering, I 

beheld 
A blazing fire— beside a cleanly hearth 
Sate down ; and to her office, with leave 

asked, 
The Dame returned. 

Or ere that glowing pile 
Of mountain turf required the builder's 

hand 
Us wasted splendor to repair, the door 
Opened, and she re-entered with glad looks, 
Her Helpmate fallowing. Hospitable fare, 



Frank conversation, made the evening's 

treat : 
Need a bewildered traveller wish for more? 
But more was given ; I studied, as we sate 
By the bright fire, the good Man's form, and 

face 
Not less than beautiful ; an open brow 
Of undisturbed humanity ; a cheek 
Suffused with something of a feminine hue ; 
Eyes beaming courtesy and mild regard ; 
But, in the quicker turns of the discourse, 
Expression slowly varying, that evinced 
A tardy apprehension. From a fount 
Lost, thought I, in the obscurities of time, 
But honored once, those features and that 

mien 
May have descended, though I see them 

here 
In such a man, so gentle and subdued, 
Withal so graceful in his gentleness, 
A race illustrious for heroic deeds, 
Humbled, but not degraded, may expire. 
This pleasing fancy (cherished and upheld 
By sundry recollections of such fall 
From high to low, ascent from low to high, 
As books record, and even the careless 

mind 
Cannot but notice among men and things) 
Went with me to the place of my repose. 

Roused by the crowing cock at dawn of 

day, 
I yet had risen too late to interchange 
A morning salutation with my Host, 
Gone forth already to the far-off seat 
Of his day's work. ' Three dark mid-winter 

months 
Pass,' said the Matron, ' and I never see. 
Save when the Sabbath brings its kind re- 
lease. 
My Helpmate's face by light of day. He 

quits 
His door in darkness, nor till dusk returns. 
And, through Heaven's blessing, thus we 

gain the bread 
For which we pray ; and for the wants pro 

vide 
Of sickness, accident, and helpless.age. 
Companions have I many ; many friends. 
Dependents, comforters — my wheel, my 

fire, 
All day the house-clock ticking in mine ear, 
The cackling hen, the tender chicken brood, 
And the wild birds that gather round my 

porch. 
Tills honest sheep-dog's countenance I 

read : 



THE EXCURSION', 



659 



With him can talk ; nor blush to waste a 

word 
On creatures less intelligent and shrewd. 
And if the blustering wind that drives the 

clouds 
Care not for me, he lingers round my 

door, 
And makes me pastime when our tempers 

suit ; — 
But, above all, my thoughts are my sup- 
port. 
My comfort : — would that they were oftener 

fixed 
On what, for guidance in the way that 

leads 
To heaven, I know, by my Redeemer 

taught.' 
The Matron ended — nor could I forbear 
To exclaim — " O, happy ! yielding to the law 
Of these privations, richer in the main ! — 
While thankless thousands are opprest and 

clogged 
By ease and leisure ; by the very wealth 
And pride of opportunity made poor ; 
While tens of thousands falter in their path. 
And sink, through utter want of cheering 

light ; 
For you the hours of labor do not flag ; 
For you each evening hath its shining 

star, 
And every sabbath-day its golden sun.' " 

" Yes ! " said the Solitary with a smile 
That seemed to break from an expanding 

heart, 
"The untutored bird may found, and so 

construct, 
And with such soft materials line, her nest 
Fixed in the centre of a prickly brake, 
That the thorns wound her not ; they only 

guard. 
Powers not unjustly likened to those gifts 
Of happy instinct which the woodland bird 
Shares with her species, nature's grace 

sometimes 
Upon the individual doth confer 
Among her higher creatures born and 

trained 
To use of reason. And, I own that, tired 
Of the ostentatious world — a swelling stage 
With empty actions and vain passions 

stuffed, 
^nd from the private struggles of mankind 
Hoping far less than I could wish to hope, 
Far less than once I trusted and believed — 
I love to hear of those who. not contend- 
ing 



Nor summoned to contend for virtue's 

prize. 
Miss not the humbler good at which they 

aim, 
Blest with a kindly faculty to blunt 
The edge of adverse circumstance, and turn 
Into their contraries the petty plagues 
And hindrances with which they stand be- 
set. 
In early youth, among my native hills, 
I knew a Scottish Peasant who possessed 
A few small crofts of stone-encumbered 

ground ; 
Masses of every shape and size, that lay 
Scattered about under the mouldering walls 
Of a rough precipice ; and some, apart, 
In quarters unobnoxious to such chance, 
As if the moon had showered them down In 

spite. 
But he repined not. Though the plough 

was scared 
By these obstructions, ' round the shady 

stones 
A fertilizing moisture,' said the Swain, 
' Gathers, and is preserved ; and feeding 

dews 
And damps, through all the droughty sum- 
mer day 
From out thSir substance issuing, maintain 
Herbage that never fails : no grj^iS springs 

up 
So green, so fresh, so plentiful, as mine ! ' 
But thinly sown these naturew; rare, at 

least, 
The mutual aptitude of seed and soil 
That yields such kindly product. He, 

whose bed 
Perhaps yon loose sods cover, the poor 

Pensioner 
Brought yesterday from our sequestered dell 
Here to lie down in lasting quiet, he. 
If living now, could otherwise report 
Of rustic loneliness : that gi-ay-haired Or- 
phan — 
So call him, for humanity to him 
No parent was — feelingly could have told, 
In life, in death, what solitude can breed 
Of selfishness, and cruelty, and vice ; 
Or, if it breed not, hath not power to cure. 
— But your compliance, Sir, with our request 
My words too long have hindered." 

Undeterred, 
Perhaps incited rather, by these shocks. 
In no ungracious opposition, given 
To the confiding spirit of his own 
Experienced faith, the leverend Pastor 
said, 



66o 



THE EXCURSION. 



Around him looking ; " Where shall I be- 
gin ? 
Who shall be first selected from my flock 
Gathered together in their peaceful fold? " 
He paused, and having lifted up his eyes 
To the pure heaven, he cast them down 

again 
Upon the earth beneath his feet, and 
spake : — 

" To a mysteriously-united pair 
This place is consecrate; to Death and 

Life, 
And to the best affections that proceed 
From their conjunction ; consecrate to 

faith 
In him who bled for man upon the cross ; 
Hallowed to revelation ; and no less 
To reason's mandates ; and the hopes di- 
vine 
Of pure imagination ; — above all, 
To charity, and love, that have provided, 
Within these precints, a capacious bed 
And receptacle, open to the good 
And evil, to the just and the luijust ; 
In which they find an equal resting-place : 
Even as the multidude of kindred brooks 
And streams, whose murmur §lls this hol- 
low vale. 
Whether their course be turbulent or 

smooth, 
Their waters clear or sullied, all are lost 
Within the bosom of yon crystal Lake, 
And end their journey in tlie same repose ! 

And blest are they who sleep ; and we 
that know, 
While in a spot like this we breathe and 
walk, [ered 

That all beneath us by the wings are cov- 
Of motherly humanity, outspread 
And gathering all within their tender shade 
Though loth and slow to come ! A battle- 
field, 
In stillness left when slaughter is no more, 
With this compared, makes a strange spec- 
tacle I 
A dismal prospect yields the wild shore 

strewn 
With wrecks, and trod by feet of young and 

old 
Wandering about in miserable search 
Of friends or kindred, whom the angry sea 
Restores not to their prayer 1 Ah 1 who 

would think 
That all the swttQred subjegts which com- 



Earth's melancholy vision through the 

space 
Of all her climes — these wretched, these de- 
praved. 
To virtue lost, insensible or peace, 
From the delights of charity cut off, 
To pity dead, the oppressor and the op* 

prest ; 
Tyrants who utter the destroying word, 
And slaves who will consent to be de- 
stroyed — 
Were of one species with the sheltered 

few, 
Who, with a dutiful and tender hand, 
Lodged, in a dear appropriated spot, 
This file of infants; some that never 

breathed 
The vital air ; others, which, though al- 
lowed 
That privilege, did yet expire too soon, 
Or with too brief a warning, to admit 
Admmistration l. .he holy rite 
That lovuigly consigns the babe to the 

arms 
Of Jesus, and his everlasting care. 
These that in trembling hope are laid 

apart ; 
And the besprinkled nurshng, unrequired 
Till he begins to smile upon the breast 
That feeds him ; and the tottering little 

one 
Taken from air and sunshine when the 

rose 
Of infancy first blooms upon his cheek ; 
The thinking, thoughtless, school-boy , the 

bold youth 
Of soul impetuous, and the bashful maid 
Smitten while all the promises of life 
Are opening round her ; those of middle 

age, 
Cast down while confident in strength they 

stand. 
Like pillars fixed more firmly, as might 

seem, 
And more secure, by very weight of all 
That, for support, rests on them ; the de. 

cayed 
And burthensome ; and lastly, that poor 

few 
Whose light of reason is with age extinct ; _ 
The hopeful and the hopeless, first and 

last. 
The earliest summoned and the longest 

spared — 
Are here deposited, with tribute paid 
Various, but unto each some tribute paid ; 
^ il pi|4 these pe^gef wl hills and groves* 



THE EXCURSION. 



CCi 



Society were touched with kind concern, 
And gentle ' Nature grieved that one should 

die ; ' 
Or, if the change demanded no regret, 
Observed the liberating stroke — and 

blessed. 

And whence that tribute ? wherefore 

these regards ? 
Not from the naked Heart alone of Man 
(Though claiming high distinction upon 

earth [tears, 

As tlie sole spring and fountain-head of 
His own peculiar utterance for distress 
Or gladness) — No," the philosophic Priest 
Continued, " 'tis not in the vital seat 
Of feeling to produce them, without aid 
From the pure soul, the soul sublime and 

pure ; 
With her two faculties of eye and ear. 
The one by which a creature, whom his 

sins 
Have rendered prone, can upward look to 

heaven ; 
The other that empowers him to perceive 
The voice of Deity, on height and plain. 
Whispering those truths in stillness, which 

the Word, 
To the four quarters of the winds, pro- 
claims. 



Not without such assistance could the use 
Of these benign observances prevail : 
Thus are they born, thus fostered, thug 

maintained ; * 

And by the care prospective of our wise 
Forefathers, who, to guard against thi 

shocks 
The fluctuation and decay of things. 
Embodied and establislied these liigh trutht 
In solemn institutions : — men convinced 
That life is love and immortality, 
The being one, and one the element. 
There lies the channel, and original bed, 
From the beginning, hollowed out and 

scooped 
For Man's affections — else betrayed and 

lost. 
And swallowed up 'mid deserts infinite ! 
This is the genuine comse, the aim, and 

end 
Of prescient reason ; all conclusions else 
Are abject, vain, presumptuous, and per- 
verse. 
The faith partaking of those holy times. 
Life, I repeat, is energy of love 
Divine or human ; exercised in pain, 
In strife, and tribulation ; and ordahied, 
If so approved and sanctified, to pass, 
Through shades and silent rest, to endlesg 

joy." 



BOOK SIXTH. 



THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE 
MOUNTAINS. 

ARGUMENT. 
Poet's Address to the State and Church of 
England— The Pastor not inferior to the an- 
cient Worthies of the Church— He begins his 
Narratives with an instance of unrequited 
Love— Anguish of mind, subdued, and how 
— The lonely Miner — An instance of perse- 
verance—Which leads by contrast to an ex- 
ample of abused talents, irresolution, and 
weakness — Solitary, applying this covertly to 
his own case, asks for an instance of some 
Stranger, whose dispositions may have led 
him to end his days here — Pastor, in answer, 
gives an account of the harmonizing influence 
of Solitude upon two men of opposite princi- 

f)les, who had encountered agitations in pub- 
ic life — The rule by which Peace may be 
obtained expressed, and where— Solitary 
hints at an overpowering Fatality— Answer 



of the Pastor— What subjects he will exclude 
from his Narrative — Conversation upon this 
— Instance of an unamiable character, a 
Female, and wliy given — Contrasted with 
this, a meek sufferer, from unguarded and 
betrayed love — Instance of heavier guilt, and 
its consequences to the Offender— With this 
instance of a Marriage Contract broken is 
contrasted one of a Widower, evidencing his 
faithful affection towards his deceased wife 
by his care of their female Children. 

Hail to the crown by Freedom shaped— to 

gird 
An English Sovereign's brow ! and to the 

throne [lie 

Whereon he sits ! Whose deep foundations 
In veneration and the people's love; 
Whose steps are equitv, whose scat is law. 
—Hail to the State ofEngland I And CO* 

join 



663 



THE EXCURSlOI^r. 



With this a sahitation as devout, 
Made to the spiritual fabric of her Church ; 
Foiinded in truth ; by blood of Martyrdom 
Cemented ; by the hands of Wisdom reared 
In beauty of holiness, with ordered pomp. 
Decent and unreproved. The voice, that 

greets 
The majesty of both, shall pray for both ; 
That, mutually protected and sustained. 
They may endure long as the sea surrounds 
This favored Land, or sunshine warms her 

soil. 

And O, ye swelling hills, and spacious 
plains ! 
Besprent from shore to shore with steeple- 
towers, 
And spires whose ' silent finger points to 

heaven ; ' 
Nor wanting, at wide intervals, the bulk 
Of ancient minster litted above the cloud 
Of the dense air, which the town or city 

breeds 
To intercept the sun's glad beams — may 

ne'er 
That true succession fail of English hearts. 
Who, with ancestral feeling, can perceive 
What in those holy structures ye possess 
Of ornamental interest, and the charm 
Of pious sentiment diffused afar. 
And human charity, and social love. 
— Thus never shall the indignities of time 
Approach their reverend graces, unopposed : 
Nor shall the elements be free to hurt 
Their fair proportions ; nor the blinder rage 
Of bigot zeal madly to overturn ; 
And, if the desolating hand of war 
Spare them, they shall continue to bestow 
Upon the thronged abodes of busy men 
(Depraved, and ever prone to fill the mind 
Exclusively with transitory things) 
An air and mien of dignified pursuit ; 
Of sweet civility, on rustic wilds. 

The Poet, fostering for his native land 
Such hope, entreats that servants may 

abound 
Of those pure altars worthy ; ministers 
Detached from pleasure, to the love of gain 
Superior, insusceptible of pride, 
And by ambitious longings undisturbed ; 
Men, whose delight is where their duty 

leads 
Or fixes them ; whose least distinguished 

day 
Shines with some portion of that heavenly 

lustre 



Which makes the sabbath lovely in tht 

sight 
Of blessed angels, pitying human cares. 
— And, as on earth it is the doom of truth 
To be perpetually attacked by foes 
Open or covert, be that priesthood still, 
For her defence, replenished with a band 
Of strenuous champions, in scholastic arts 
Thoroughly disciplined ; nor (if in course 
Of the revolving world's disturbances 
Cause should recur, which righteous Heaven 

avert ! 
To meet such trial) from their spiritual sires 
Degenerate ; who, constrained to wield the 

sword 
Of disputation, shrunk not, though assailed 
With hostile din, and combating in sight 
Of angry umpires, partial and unjust ; 
And did, thereafter, bathe their hands in 

fire. 
So to declare the conscience satisfied : 
Nor for their bodies would accept release ; 
But, blessing God and praising him, be- 
queathed 
With their last breath, front out the smoul- 
dering flame, [earned, 
The faith which they by diligence had 
Or, through illuminating grace, received, 
For their dear countrymen, and all man- 
kind. 
O high example, constancy divine ! 

Even such a Man (inheriting the zeai 
And from the sanctity of elder times 
Not deviating, — a priest, the like of whom, 
If multiplied, and in their stations set. 
Would o'er the bosom of a joyful land 
Spread true religion and her genuine fruits) 
Before me stood tliat day ; on holy ground 
Fraught with the relics of mortality. 
Exalting tender themes, by just degrees 
To lofty raised ; and to the highest, last ; 
The head and mighty paramount of truths,^ 
Immortal life, in never-fading worlds, 
For mortal creatures, conquered anc^ secured. 

That basis laid, those principles of faith 
Announced, as a preparatory act 
Of reverence done to the spirit of the place, 
The Pastor cast his eyes upon the ground ; 
Not, as before, like one oppressed with 

awe. 
But with a mild and social cheerfulness ; 
Then to the Solitary turned, and spake. 

"At morn or eve, in your retired domain, 
Perchance you not unfrequently hav» 
marked 



THE EXCURSION^. 



663 



A Visitor — in quest of herbs and flowers ; 
Too delicate employ, as would appear, 
For one, who, though of drooping mien, had 

yet 
From nature's kindliness received a frame 
Robust as ever rural labor bred." 

The Solitary answered : " Such a Form 
Full well I recollect. We often crossed 
Each other's path ; but, as the Intruder 

seemed 
Fondly to prize the silence which he kept, 
And 1 as v/illingly did cherish mine, 
We met, and passed, like shadows. I have 

heard, 
From my good Host, that being crazed in 

brain 
By unrequited love, he scaled the rocks, 
Dived into caves, and pierced the matted 

woods, 
In hope to find some virtuous herb of 

power 
To cure his malady ! " 

The Vicar smiled, — 
•' Alas ! before to-morrow's sun goes down 
His habitation will be here : for him 
That open grave is destined." 

" Died he then 
Of pain and grief ? " the Solitary asked. 
" Do not believe it ; never could that be ! " 

" Ke loved," the Vicar answered, " deep- 
ly loved, 
Loved fondly, truly, fervently ; and dared 
At length to tell his love, but sued in vain ; 
Rejected, yea repelled ; and, if with scorn 
Upon the haughty maiden's brow, 'tis but 
A high-prized plume which female Beauty 

wears 
In wantonness of conquest, or puts on 
To cheat the world, or from herselr to hide 
Humiliation, when no longer free. 
That he could brook, and glory in ;— but 

when 
The tidings came that she whom he had 

wooed 
Was wedded to another, and his heart 
Was forced to rend away its only hope ; 
Then, Pity could have scarcely found on 

earth 
An object wortl ier of regard than he, 
In the transition of that bitter hour ! 
Lost was she, lost ; nor could the Sufferer 

say 
That in the act of preference he had been 
Unjustly dealt with; but the Maid was 

gone I 



Had vanished from his prospects and de- 
sires ; 
Not by translation to the heavenly choir 
Who have put off their mortal spoils — ah 

no ! 
She lives another's wishes to complete, — 
' Joy be their lot, and happiness,' he cried, 
' His lot and hers, as misery must be mine i 

Such was that strong concussion ; but the 

Man, 
Who trembled, trunk and limbs, like some 

huge oak 
By a fierce tempest shaken, soon resumed 
The steadfast quiet natural to a mind 
Of composition gentle and sedate. 
And, in its movements circumspect and 

slow. 
To books, and to the long-forsaken desk, 
O'er which enchained by science he had 

loved 
To bend, he stoutly re-addressed himssS^, 
Resolved to quell his pain, and search "■or 

truth 
With keener appetite (if that might be) 
And closer industry. Of what ensued 
Within the heart no outward sign appeaiM 
Till a betraying sickliness was seen _ ^ 
To tinge his cheek ; and through his fraf • 

it crept 
With slow mutation unconcealable ; 
Such universal change as autumn makes 
In the fair body of a leafy grove 
Discolored, then divested. 

'Tis affirmed 
By poets skilled in nature's secret ways 
That Love will not submit to be controlled 
By mastery :~and the good Man lacke/ 

not friends 
Who strove to instil this truth into his 

mind, 
A mind in all heart-mysteries unversed. 
' Go to the hills,' said one, ' remit a while 
This baneful diligence :— at early morn 
Court the fresh air, explore the heaths and 

woods ; 
And, leaving it to others to foretell, 
By calculations sage, the ebb and flow 
Of tides, and when the moon will be eclipsed, 
Do you, for your own benefit, construct 
A calendar of flowers, plucked as they blow 
Where health abides, and cheerfulness, and 

peace.' 
The attempt was made;— 'tis needless to 

report 
How hopelessly ; but innocence is strong. 
And an entire simplicity of mind 



664 



THE EXCURSTOI^. 



A thing most sacred in the ej^e of Heaven ; 
That opens, for such sufferers, relief 
Within the soul, fountains of grace divine ; 
And doth commend tlieir weakness and dis- 
ease 
To Nature's care, assisted in her office 
By all the elements that round her wait 
To generate, to preserve, and to restore ; 
And by her beautiful array of forms 
Shedding sweet influence from above ; or 

pure 
Delight exhaling from the ground they 
tread." 

" Impute it not to impatience, if,'' ex- 
claimed 
The Wanderer, " I infer that he was healed 
By perseverance in the course prescribed " 

" Yen do not err : the powers, that had 
been lost 
By slow degrees, were gradually regained : 
The fluttering nerves composed ; the beat- 
ing heart 
In rest established ; and the jarring thoughts 
To harmony restored. — But yon dark mould 
Will cover him, in the fulness of his strength, 
Hastily smitten by a fever's force ; 
Yet not with stroke so sudden as refused 
Time to look back with tenderness on her 
Whom he had loved in passion ; and to send 
Some farewell words — with one, but one, re- 
quest ; 
That, from his dying hand, she would accept 
Of his possessions that which most he 

prized ; 
A book, upon whose leaves some chosen 

plants, 
By his own hand disposed with nicest care. 
In undecaying beauty were preserved ; 
Mute register, to him, of time and place, 
And various fluctuations in the breast ; 
To her,, a monument of faithful love 
Conquered, and in tranquillity retained ! 

Close to his destined habitation, li 
One who achieved a humbler victory. 
Though marvellous in its kind. A place 

there is 
High m these mountains, that allured a band 
Of keen adventurers to unite their pains 
In search of precious ore : they tried, were 

foiled — 
And all desisted, all, save him alone. 
He, taking counsel of his own clear thoughts, 
And trusting only to his own weak hands, 
Urged unremittingly the stubborn work, 



Unseconded, uncountenanced ; then, as 

time 
Passed on, while still his lonely efforts found 
No recompense, derided ; and at length, 
By many pitied, as insane of mind ; 
By others dreaded as the luckless thrall 
Of subterranean Spirits feeding hope 
By various mockery of sight and sound ; 
Hope after hope, encouraged and destroyed. 
— But when the lord of seasons had matured 
The fruits of earth through space of twice 

ten years, 
The mountain's entrails offered to his view 
And trembling grasp the long-deferred re- 
ward. 
Not with more transport did Columbus greet 
A world, his rich discovery ! But our Swain, 
A very hero till his point was gained. 
Proved all unable to support the weight 
Of prosperous fortune. On the fields he 

looked 
With an unsettled liberty of thought, 
Wishes and endless schemes ; by daylight 

walked 
Giddy and restless ; ever and anon 
QuaJed in his gratitude immoderate cups ; 
And truly might be said to die of joy ! 
He vanished ; but conspicuous to this day- 
The path remains that Imked his cottage 

door 
To the mine's mouth ; a long and slanting 

track. 
Upon the rugged mountain's stony side, 
Worn by his daily visits to and from 
The darksome centre of a constant hope. 
This vestige, neither force of beating rain, 
Nor the vicissitudes of frost and thaw 
Shall cause to fade, till ages pass away ; 
And it is named, in memory of the event, 
The Path of Perseverance." 

" Thou from whom 
Man has his strength," exclaimed the 

Wanderer, " oh ! 
Do thou direct it ! To the virtuous grant 
The penetrative eye which can perceive 
In this blind world the guiding vein of hope; 
That, like this Laborer, such may dig their 

way, 
' Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified ; ' 
Grant to the wise his firmness of resolve ! " 

" That prayer were not superfluous," said 
the Priest, 
" Amid the noblest relics, proudest dust, 
That Westminster, for Briton's glory, holds 
Within tlie bosom ot her awful pile. 
Ambitiously collected. Yet the sigh. 



THE EXCURSION. 



^65 



Wliich wafts that prayer to heaven, is due 

to all, 
Wlierever laid, who living fell below 
Tl'.eir virtue's humbler mark ; a sigh of 

pain 
/f to the opposite extreme they sank. 
How would you pity her who yonder rests ; 
Him, farther off ; the pair who here arc laid ; 
But, above all, that mixture of earth's 

mould 
Whom sight of this green hillock to my 

mind 
Recalls ! 

He lived not till his locks were nipped 
By seasonable frost of age ; nor died 
Before his temples, prematurely forced 
To mix the manly brown with silver gray, 
Gave obvious instance of the sad effect 
Produced, when thoughtless Folly hath 

usurped 
The natural crown that sage Experience 

wears. 
Gay, volatile, ingenious, quick to learn, 
A.nd prompt to exhibit all that he possessed 
Or could perform ; a zealous actor, hired 
Into the troop of mirth, a soldier, sworn 
Into the lists of giddy enterprise — 
Such was he; yet, as if within his frame 
Two several souls alternately had lodged. 
Two sets of manners could the Youth put 

on; 
And, fraught with antics as the Indian bird 
That writhes and chatters in her wiry cage, 
Was graceful, when it pleased him, smooth 

and still 
As the mute swan that floats adown the 

stream. 
Or, on the waters of the unruffled lake, 
Anchors her placid beauty. Not a leaf. 
That flutters on the bough, lighter than he ; 
And not a flower, that droops in the green 

shade, 
More winningly reserved ! if ye enquire 
How such consum.mate elegance was bred 
Amid these wilds, this answer may suffice ; 
'Twas Nature's will ; who sometimes un- 
dertakes, 
For the reproof of human vanity. 
Art to outstrip in Ivcr peculiar walk. 
Hence, for this Favorite — lavishly endowed 
With personal gifts, and bright instinctive 

wit 
While both, embellishing each other, stood 
Yet farther recommended by the charm 
Of fine demeanor, and by dance and song. 
And skill in letters — every fancy shaped 
Fair expectations j nor, when to the world's 



Capacious field forth went the Adventure^- 

there 
Were he and his attainments overiooked, 
Or scantily rewarded ; but all hopes. 
Cherished for him, he suffered to depart, 
Like blighted buds ; or clouds that mimicked 

land 
Before the sailor's eye ; or diamond drops 
That sparkling decked the morning grass ; 

or aught 
That was attractive, and hath ceased to be ! 

Yet, when this Prodigal returned, the 

rites 
Of joyful greeting were on him bestowed, 
Who, by humiliation undeterred. 
Sought for his weariness a place of rest 
Within his Father's gates. — Whence came 

he ? — clothed 
In tattered sarb, from hovels where abide 
Necessity, the stationary host 
Of vagrant poverty ; from rifted barns 
Where no one dwells but the wide-staring 

owl 
And the owl's prey ; from these bare haunts, 

to which 
He had descended from the proud saloon, 
He came, the ghost of beauty and of health, 
The wreck of gayety ! but soon revived 
In strength, in power refitted, he renewed 
His suit to Fortune; and she smiled again 
Upon a fickle Ingrate. Thrice he rose. 
Thrice sank as willingly. For he — whose 

nerves 
Were used to thrill with pleasure, while his 

voice 
Softly accompanied the tuneful harp. 
By the nice finger of fair ladies touched 
In glittering halls — was able to derive 
No less enjoyment from an abject choice. 
Who happier for the moment — who more 

blithe 
Than this fallen Spirit? in those dreary 

holds 
His talents lending to exalt the freaks 
Of merry-making beggars, — now, provoked 
To laughter mu'tiplied in louder peals 
By his malicious wit ; then, all enchained 
With mute astonishment, themselves to see 
In their own arts outdone, their fame 

eclipsed, 
As by the very presence of the Fiend 
Who dictates and inspires illusive feats, 
For knavish purposes ! The city, too, 
(VV'ith shame I speak it) to her guiltj 

bowers 
1 Allured him, sunk so low in self-respect 



666 



THE EXCURSIOPT. 



As there to linger, there to eat his bread, 
Hired minstrel of voluptuous blandish- 
ment ; 
Charming the air with skill of hand or voice, 
Listen who would, be wrought upon who 

might. 
Sincerely wretched hearts, or falsely gay. 
—Such the too frequent tenor of his boast 
In ears that relished the report ; — but all 
Was from his Parents happily concealed ; 
Who saw enough for blame and pitying 

love. 
They also were permitted to receive 
His last, repentant breath ; and closed his 

eyes, 
No more to open on that irksome world 
Where he had long existed in the state 
Of a young fowl beneath one mother hatched. 
Though from another sprung, different in 

kind : 
Where he had lived, and could not cease to 

live, 
Distracted in propensity ; content 
With neither element of good or ill ; 
And yet in both rejoicing ; man unblest ; 
Of contradictions infinite the slave, 
Till his deliverance, when Mercy made him 
One with himself, and one with them that 

sleep." 

"'Tis strange," observed the Solitary, 

" strange 
It seems, and scarcely less than pitiful, 
That in a land where charity provides 
For all that can no longer feed themselves, 
A man like this should choose to bring his 

shame 
To the parental door ; and with his sighs 
Infect the air which he had freely breathed 
In happy infancy. He could not pine, 
Through lack of converse ; no — he must 

have found 
Abundant exercise for thought and speech. 
In his dividual being, self-reviewed, 
Self-catechised, self-punished. -^Some there 

are 
Who, drawing near their final home, and 

much 
And daily longing that the same were 

reached, 
Would rather shun than seek the fellowship 
Of kindred mould.— Such haply here are 

laid.?" 

" Yes," said the Priest, " the Genius of 
our hills — 
Who seems, by these tremendous barriers 
cast 



Round his domain, desirous not alone 
To keep his own, but also to exclude 
All other progeny — doth sometimes lure, 
Even by his studied depth of privacy, 
The unhappy alien hoping to obtain 
Concealment, or seduced by wish to find, 
In place from outward molestation free, 
Helps to internal ease. Of many such 
Could I discourse; but as their stay was 

brief. 
So their departure only left behind 
Fancies, and loose conjectures. Other trace 
Survives, for worthy mention, of a pair 
Who, from the pressure of their several 

fates, 
Meeting as strangers, in a pettytown 
Whose blue roofs ornament a distant reach 
Of this far-winding vale, remained as friends 
True to their choice , and gave their bones 

in trust 
To this loved cemetery, here to lodge 
With unescutcheoned privacy interred 
Far from the family vault. — A Chieftain one 
By right of birth ; within whose spotless 

breast 
The fire of ancient Caledonia burned : 
He, with the foremost whose impatience 

hailed 
The Stuart, landing to resume, by force 
Of arms, the crown which bigotry had lost. 
Aroused his clan ; and, fighting at their 

head. 
With his brave sword endeavored to prevent 
Culloden's fatal overthrow. Escaped 
From that disastrous rout, to foreign shores 
He fled ; and when the lenient hand of 

time [gained, 

Those troubles had appeased, he sought and 
For his obscured condition, an obscure 
Retreat, withui this nook of English ground. 

The other, born in Britain's southern 
tract, 
Had fixed his milder loyalty, and placed 
His gentler sentiments of love and hate, 
There where they placed them who in con- 
science prized 
The new succession, as a line of kings 
Wliose oath had virtue to protect the land 
Against the dire assaults of papacy 
And arbitrary rule. But launch thy bark 
On the distempered flood of public life, 
And cause for most rare triumph will be 

thine 
If, spite of keenest eye and steadiest hand, 
The stream, that bears thee forward, pr»we 
not, soon 



THE EXCURSIO!^. 



667 



Or late, a perilous master. He — who oft. 
Beneath the battlements and stately trees 
That round his mansion cast a sober gloom, 
Had moralized on this, and other truths 
Ot kinared import, pleased and satisfied — 
Was forced to vent his wisdom with a sigh 
Heaved from the heart in fortune's bitter- 
ness, 
When he had crushed a plentiful estate 
By ruinous contest, to obtain a seat 
In Britain's senate. Fruitless was the 

attempt : 
And while the uproar of that desperate strife 
Continued yet to vibrate on his ear. 
The vanquished Whig, under a borrowed 

name, 
(For the mere sound and echo of his own 
Haunted him with sensations of disgust 
That he was glad to lose) slunk from the 

world 
To the deep shade of those untravelled 

Wilds ; 
In which the Scottish Laird had long pos- 
sessed 
An undisturbed abode. Here, then, they 

met, 
Two doughty champions ; flaming Jacobite 
And sullen Hanoverian ! You might think 
That losses and vexations, less severe 
Than those which they had severally sus- 
tained, 
Would have inclined each to abate his zeal 
For his ungrateful cause ; no, — I have 

heard 
My reverend Father tell that, 'mid the calm 
Of that small town encountering thus, they 

filled, 
Daily, its bowling-green with harmless 

strife ; 
Plagued with uncharitable thoughts the 
! church ; 

And vexed the market-place. But in the 
' breasts 

Of these opponents gradually was wrought. 
With little change of general sentiment. 
Such leaning towards each other, that their 

days 
By choice were spent in constant fellow- 
ship ; 
And if, at times, they fretted with the yoke. 
Those very bickerings made them love it 
more. 

A favorite boundary to their lengthened 
walks 
This Church-yard was. And, whether they 
had corns 



Treading their path in sympathy and 

linked 
In social converse, or by some short space 
Discreetly parted to preserve the peace, 
One spirit seldom failed to extend its sway 
Over both minds, when they awhile had 

marked 
The visible quiet of this holy ground. 
And breathed its soothing air ; — the spirit of 

hope 
And saintly magnanimity ; that — spurning 
The field of selfish difference and dispute, 
And every care which transitory things, 
Earth and the kingdoms of the earth, 

create— 
Doth, by a rapture of forgetfulness. 
Preclude forgiveness, from the praise de- 
barred, 
Which else the Christian virtue might have 
claimed. 

There live who yet remember here to 

have seen 
Their courtly figures, seated on the stump 
Of an old yew, their favorite resting-place. 
But as the remnant of the long-lived tree 
Was disappearing by a swift decay, 
They, with joint care, determined to erect, 
Upon its site, a dial, that might stand 
For public lise preserved, and thus survive 
As their own private monument ; for this 
Was the particular spot, in which they 

wished 
(And Heaven was pleased to accomplish 

the desire) 
That, undivided, their remains should lie. 
So, where the mouldered tree had stood, 

was raised 
Yon structure, framing, with the ascent of 

steps 
That to the decorated pillar lead, 
A work of art more sumptuous than might 

seem 
To suit this place ; yet built with no proud 

scorn 
Of rustic homeliness ; they only aimed 
To ensure for it respectful guardianship. 
Around the marcrin of the plate, whereon 
The sliadow falls to note the stealthy 

hours. 
Winds an Inscriptive legend." — At these 

words 
Thither we turned; and gathered, as we 

read. 
The appropriate sense, in Latin numbers 

couched : 
" Time files ; it is his melancholy task 



668 



THE EXCURSION. 



To bring, and bear away^ delusive hopes. 
And y-e-produce the troubles lie destroys. 
But, while hts blindness thus is occupied, 
Discerning Afortal ' do thou serve the will 
Of Timers eternal Master, a?id that peace, 
Which the world wants, shall be for thee 
conjirmed ' " 

" Smooth verse, inspired by no unlettered 
Muse," 
Exclaimed the Skeptic, " and the stram of 

thought 
Accords with nature's language; — the soft 

voice 
Of yon wb.ite torrent falling down the rocks 
Speaks, less distinctly, to the same effect. 
If, then, their blended influence be not lost 
Upon our hearts, not wholly lost, I grant. 
Even upon mine, the more we are required 
To feel for those among our fellow-men. 
Who, offering no obeisance to the world, 
Are yet made desperate by ' too quick a 

sense 
Of constant infelicity,' cut off 
From peace like exiles on some barren 

rock, 
Their life's appointed prison ; not more 

free 
Than sentinels, between tv/o armies, set. 
With nothing better, in the chill night»air. 
Than their own thoughts to comfort them. 

Say why 
That ancient story of Prometheus chained 
To the bare rock, on frozen Caucasus ; 
The vulture, the inexhaustible repast 
Drawn from his vitals ? Say what meant 

the woes 
By Tantalus entailed upon his race. 
And the dark sorrows of the line of 

Thebes ? 
Fictions m form, but in their substance 

trutlis. 
Tremendous truths ! familiar to the men , 
Of lung-past times, nor obselete in ours. 
Exchar.ge the shepherd's frock of native 

gray 
For robes with regal purple tinged , con- 
vert 
The crook into a sceptre ; give the pomp 
Of circumstance ; and here the tragic Rluse 
Shall find apt subjects for her highest art. 
Amid the groves, under the shadowy hills. 
The generations are prepared ; the pangs, 
The internal pangs, are ready ; the dread 

strife 
Of poor luimanity's afflicted will 
Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny." 



" Though,"' said the Priest in answer, 
" these be terms 
Which a divine philosophy rejects. 
We, whose established and unfailing trust 
Is in controlling Providence, admit 
That, through all stations, human lite 

abounds 
With mysteries ; — for, if Faith were left un 

tried, 
How could the might, that lurks within her, 

then 
Be shown ? her glorious excellence — that 

ranks 
Among the first of Powers and Virtues- 
proved ? 
Our system is not fashioned to preclude 
That syrnpathy which you for others ask ; 
And I could tell, not travelling for my 

theme 
Beyond these humble graves, of grievous 

crimes 
And strange disasters ; but I pass them by, 
Loth to disturb what Heaven hath hushed 

in peace. 
—Still less, far less, am I inclined to treat 
Of Man degraded m his Maker's sight 
By the deformities of brutish vice : 
For, in such portraits, though a vulgar face 
And a coarse outside of repulsive life 
And unaffectmg manners might at once 
Be recognized by all — " " Ah ! do not 

think," 
The Wanderer somewhat eagerly ex- 
claimed, [?^in» 
" Wisli could be ours that you, for such poor 
(Gain shall 1 call it ? — gain of what.? — for 

whom ? ) 
Should breathe a word tending to violate 
Your own pure spirit. Not a step we look 

for 
In slight of that forbearance^and reserve 
Which common human - heartedness in- 
spires, 
And mortal ignorance and frailty claim, 
Upon this sacred ground, if nowhere else." 

" True," said the Solitary, " be it far 
From us to infringe the laws of charity. 
Let judgment here in mercy be pro- 
nounced ; 
This, self-respecting Nature prompts, and 

this 
Wisdom enjoins ; but if the thing we seek 
Be genuine knowledge, bear we tlien in 

mind 
How, from his lofty throne, the sun caa 
fling 



THE EXCURSION'. 



669 



Colors as bright on exhalations bred 
By weedy pool or pestilential swamp, 
As by the rivulet sparkling where it runs, 
Or the pellucid lake." 

" Small risk," said I, 
■■' Of such illusion do we here incur ; 
Temptation here is n(5ne to exceed the 

truth ; 
No evidence appears that they who rest 
Within this ground were covetous of praise, 
Or of remembrance even, deserved or not. 
Green is the Church-yard, beautiful and 

green, 
Ridge rising gently by the side of ridge, 
A heaving surface, almost wholly free 
From interruption of sepulchral stones, 
And mantled o'er witli alDoriginal turf 
And everlasting flowers. These Dalesmen 

trust 
The lingering gleam of their departed lives 
To oral record, and the silent heart ; 
Depositories faithful and more kind 
Than fondest epitaph : for, if those fallj 
What boots the sculptured tomb ? And 

who can blame, 
Wlio rather v/ould not envy, men that feel 
This mutual confidence ; if, from such 

source. 
The practice flow, — if thence, or from a 

deep 
And general humility in death ? 
Nor should I much condemn it, if it spring 
From disregard of time's destructive power. 
As only capable to prey on things 
Of earth, and human nature's mortal part. 

Yet — in less simple districts, where we 

see 
Stone lift its forehead emulous of stone 
In courting notice ; and the ground all 

paved 
With commendations of departed worth ; 
Reading, where'er we turn, of innocent 

lives. 
Of each domestic charity fulfilled, 
And sufferings meekly borne — I, for my 

part, 
Though with the silence pleased that here 

prevails, 
Among those fair recitals also range. 
Soothed by the natural spirit which they 

breathe. 
And, in the centre of a world whose soil 
is rank with all unkindness, compassed 

round 
With such memorials, 1 have sometimes 

felt. 



It was no momentary happiness 

To have 07tc Enclosure where the voice that 

speaks 
In envy or detraction is not heard , 
Which malice may not enter ; where the 

traces 
Of evil inclinations are unknown ; 
Where love and pity tenderly unite 
With resignation ; and no jarring tone 
Intrudes, the peaceful concert to disturb 
Of amity and gratitude." 

" Thus sanctioned," 
The Pastor said, " I willingly conhne 
My narratives to subjects that excite 
Feelings with these accordant; love, es- 
teem, 
And admiration ; lifting up a veil, 
A sunbeam introducing among hearts 
Retired Jmd covert ; so that ye shall have 
Clear images before your gladdened eyes 
Of nature's unambit'ous underwood, 
And flowers that prosper in the shade. And 

when 
I speak of such among my flock as swerved 
Or fell, those only shall be singled out 
Upon whose lapse, or error, something 

more 
Than brotherly forgiveness may attend ; 
To such will we restrict our notice, else 
Better my tongue were mute. 

And yet there are, 
I feel, good reasons why we should not 

leave 
Wholly imtraced a more forbidding way. 
For, strength to persevere and to support, 
k-ndi energy to conquer and rebel — 
These elements of virtue, that declare 
The native grandeur of the human soul — 
Are oft-times not unprofitably shown 
In the perverseness cf a selfish course : 
Truth every day exemplified, no less 
In the gray cottage by the murmuring 

stream 
Than in fantastic conqueror's roving camp, 
Or 'mid the factious senate unappalled 
Whoe'er may sink, or rise — to sink again, 
As merciless proscription ebbs and flows. 

There," said the Vicar, pointing as he 

spake, 
" A woman rests in peace ; surpassed by 
^ few 

In power of mind, and eloquent discourse. 
Tall was her stature ; her compexion dark 
And saturnine ; her head not raised to hold 
Converse with heaven, nor yet depressed 

towards earth. 



670 



THE EXCURSION. 



But in projection carried, as she wallved 
Forever musing. Sunken were iicr eyes ; 
Wrinkled and furrowed with habitual 

thought 
Was her broad forehead ; Hke the brow of 

one 
Whose visual nerve shrinks from a painful 

glare 
Of overpowering light. — While yet a child, 
She, 'mid the humble flowere.ts of the vale, 
Towered like the imperial thistle, not unfur- 
nished [ing 
With its appropriate grace, yet rather seek- 
To be admired, than coveted and loved. 
Even at that age she ruled, a sovereign 

queen. 
Over her comrades ; else their simple 

sports, 
Wanting all relish for her strenuous.mind, 
Had crossed her only to be shunned with 

scorn. 
— Oh ! pang of sorrowful regret for those 
Whom, in their youth, sweet study has en- 
thralled, 
That they have lived for harsher servitude. 
Whether in soul, in body, or estate ! 
Such doom was hers; yet nothing could 

subdue 
Her keen desire of knowledge, nor efface 
Those brighter images by books imprest 
Upon her memory, faithfully as stars 
That occupy their places, and, though oft 
Hidden by clouds, and oft bedimmed by 

haze, 
Are not to be extingviished, nor impaired. 

Two passions, both degenerate, for they 
both 
Began in honor, gradually obtained 
Rule over her, and vexed her daily life ; 
An unremitting, avaricious thrift ; 
And a strange thraldom of maternal love. 
That held her spirit, in its own despite, 
Bound — by vexation, and regret, and scorn. 
Constrained forgiveness, and relenting vows. 
And tears, in pride suppressed- in shame 

concealed — 
To a poor dissolute Son, her only child. 
—Her wedded days had opened witk mis- 
hap. 
Whence dire dependence. What could she 

perform 
To shake the burden off .-' Ah ! there waf 

felt. 
Indignantly, the weakness of her sex. 
She mused, resolved, adhered to her re- 
solve; 



The hand grew slack in alms-giving, the 

heart 
Closed by degrees to charity ; heaven's 

blessing 
Not seeking from that source, she placed 

her trust 
In ceaseless pains — and strictest parsimony 
Which sternly hoarded all that could be 

spared. 
From each day's need, out of each day's 

least gain. 

Thus all was re-established, and a pile 
Constructed that sufficed for every end, 
Save the contentment of the builder's 

mind ; 
A mind by nature indisposed to aught 
So placid, so inactive, as content ; 
A mind intolerant of lasting peace. 
And cherishing the pang her heart de- 
plored. 
Dread life of conflict ! which I oft com- 
pared 
To the agitation of a brook that runs 
Down a rocky mountain, buried now and 

lost 
In silent pools, now in strong eddies 

chained ; 
But never to be charmed to gentleness : 
Its best attainment fits of such repose 
As timid eyes might shrink from fathom- 
ing. 

A sudden illness seized her in the 

strength 
Of life's autumnal season. — Shall I tell 
How on her bed of death the Matron lay. 
To Providence submissive, so she thought ; 
But fretted, vexed, and wrought upon, 

almost 
To anger, by the malady that griped 
Her prostrate frame with unrelaxing 

power. 
As the fierce eagle fastens on the lamb.? 
She prayed, she moaned ; — her husband's 

sister watched 
Her dreary pillow, waited on her needs ; 
And yet the very sound of that kind foot 
Was anguish to her ears ! * and must she 

rule,' 
This was the death-doomed Woman heard 

to say 
In bitterness, * and must she rule and 

reign. 
Sole Mistress of this house, when I am 

goae? 



THE EXCURSION. 



671 



Tend what I tended, calling it her own I ' 
Enough ; — I tear, too much, — One vernal 

evening,' 
While sJie was yet in prime of health and 

strength, 
I kvell remember, wliile I passed her door 
Alone, with loitering step, and upward. eye 
Turned towards the planet Jupiter that 

hung 
Above the centre of the Vale, a voice 
.Roused me, her voice; it said, 'That 

glorious star 
In its untroubled element will shine 
As now it shines, when we are laid in 

earth 
And safe from all our sorrows.' With a 

sigh 
She spake, yet, I believe, not unsustained 
By faith in glory that sliall far transcend 
Aught by these perishable heavens dis- 
closed 
To sight or mind. Nor less than care 

divine 
Is divine m^rcy. She, who had rebelled. 
Was into meekness softened and subdued ; 
Did, after trials not in vain j^rolonged. 
With resignation sink into the grave; 
And her uncharitaDle acts, I trust. 
And luirsh unkindnesses are all forgiven, 
Tho', in this Vale, remembered with deep 

awe." 



TiiK Vicar paused; and toward a seat ad- 
vanced, 
A long stone seat, fixed in the Churcli-yard 

' wall ; 
Part shaded by cool sycamore, and part 
Offering a sunny resting-place to them 
Wlio seek the House of worsliip, while tiie 

bells 
}'et ring with all their voices, or before 
The last hath ceased its solitary knoll. 
Beneath the shade we all sate down ; and 

there 
His office, uninvited, he resumed. 

" As on a sunny bank, a tender lamb 
Lurks in safe shelter from tlie winds of 

March, 
Screened by its parent, so that little mound 
Lies guarded by its neighbor ; the small 

heap 
Speaks for itself ; an infant there doth 

rest ; 
The sheltering liillock is the Mother's 

grav,^ 



If mild discourse, and manners that con- 
ferred 
A natural dignity on humblest rank ; 
If gladsome spirits, and benignant looks, 
That for a face not beautiful did more 
Tlian beauty for tiie fairest face can do ; 
And if religious tenderness of heart. 
Grieving for sin, and penitential tears 
Shed when the clouds had gathered and dis- 

tained 
The spotless ether of a maiden life ; 
If these may make a liallowed spot of 

earth 
More holy in the sight of God or Man ; 
Then, o'er that mould, a sanctity shall brood 
Till tlie stars sicken at the day of doom. 



Ah ! what a warning for a thoughtless 

man 
Could field or grove, could any spot of 

earth, 
Show to his eye an image of the pangs 
Whicli it hath witnessed ; render back an 

echo 
Of the sad steps by which it hath been 

trod ! 
Tiicre, by her innocent Baby's precious 

grave, 
And on the very turf that roofs her own, 
The Mother oft was seen to stand, or 

kneel 
In the broad day, a weeping Magdalene. ' 
Now she is not; the swelling turf reports 
Of the fresh shower, but of poor Ellen's 

tears 
Is silent ; nor is any vestige left 
Of the path worn by mournful tread of I, or 
Who, at her heart's light bidding, once had 

moved 
In virgin fearlessness, with step that 

seemed 
Caught from the pressure of elastic turf 
Upon tlie mountains gemmed with morning 

dew. 
In the prime hour of sweetest scents and 

airs. 
— Serious and thoughtful was her mind ; 

and yet, 
By r,econcilement exquisite and rare 
Tlie form, port, motions, of this Cottage- 
girl 
Were such as might have quickened and in- 

spired 
A Titian's hand, addrest to jjicture forth 
Oread or Dryad glancing through the 

shade 



672 



THE EXCURSION. 



Wliat time the hunter's earliest horn is 

heard 
Startling the golden hills. 

A wide-spread elm 
Stands in our valley, named The Joyful 

Tree; 
F.om dateless usage which our peasants 

hold 
Of giving welcome to the first of May 
By dances round its trunk. — And if the sky 
Permit, like honors, dance and song, are 

paid 
To the Twelfth Night, beneath the frosty 

stars 
Or the clear moon. The queen of these 

gay sports, 
If not in beauty yet in sprightly air, 
Was hapless Ellen. — No one touched the 

ground 
So deftly, and the nicest maiden's locks 
Less gracefully were braided ; — but this 

praise, 
Methinks, would better suit another place. 

She loved, and fondly deemed herself be- 
loved. 
— The road is dim, the current unperceived, 
The weakness painful and most pitiful, 
By which a virtuous woman, in pure youth, 
May be delivered to distress and shame. 
Such fate was hers. — The last time Ellen 

danced, 
Among her equals, round The Joyful 

Tree, • 
She bore a secret burthen ; and full soon 
Was left to tremble for a breaking vow, — 
Then, to bewail a sternly broken vow, 
Alone, within her widowed Motlier's house. 
It was the seasoi. of unfolding leaves. 
Of days advancing toward their utmost 

length, 
And small birds singing happily to mates 
Happy as they. With spirit-saddening 

power 
Winds pipe through fadin^r woods ; but 

those blithe notes 
Strike the deserted to the heart ; I speak 
Of what I know, and what we feel within, 
—Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt 
Stands a tall ash-tree ; to whose topmost 

twig 
A thrush resorts, and annually chants. 
At morn and evening from that naked 

p^rch, 
Whih all the undergrove is thick with 

. leaves, 
A time-beguiling duty, for delight 



Of his fond partner, silent in the nest. 
— ' Ah why,' said Ellen, sighing to herself. 
Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn 

pledge ; 
And nature that is kind in woman's breast, 
And reason that in man is wise and good. 
And fear of him who is a righteous judge f 
Why do not these prevail for human life, 
To keep two hearts together, that began 
Their spring-time with one love, and that 

have need 
Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet 
To grant, or be received ; while that poor 

bird— 
O come and hear him ! Thou who hast to 

me 
Been faithless, hear him, though a lowly 
creature, [not 

One of God's simple children that yet know 
The universal Parent, how he sings 
As if he wished the firmament of heaven 
Should listen, and give back to him the 

voice 
Of his triumphant constancy and love ; 
The proclamation that he makes, how far 
His darkness doth transcend our fickle 
light!' 

Such was the tender passage, not by me 
Repeated without loss of simple phrase, 
Which I perused, even as tlic words had 

been 
Committed by forsaken Ellen's hand 
To tlie blank margin of a Valentine, 
Be dropped with tears, 'Twill please you to 

be told 
That, studiously withdrawing from the eye 
Of all companionsliip, the Sufferer yet 
In lonely reading found a meek resource; 
How thankful for the warmth of summer 

days, 
Wlien she could slip into the cottage-barn, 
And find a secret oratory there ; 
Or, in the garden, under friendly veil 
Of their long twilight, pore upon her book 
By the last lingering help of the open sky 
Until dark night dismissed her to her bed 
Thus did a waking fancy sometimes lose 
The unconquerable pang of despised love. 

A kindlier passion opened on her soul 
When that poor Child was born. Upon its 

face 
She gazed as on a pure and spotless gift 
Of unexpected promise, where a grief 
Or dread was all that had been thought of, 
—joy 



THE EXCURSION, 



^73 



Far livelier than bewildered traveller feels, 
Amid a perilous waste that all niglit long 
Hath harassed him toiling through fearful 

storm, 
When he beholds the first pale speck 

serene 
Oi day-spring, in the gloomy east, revealed. 
And greets it with thanksgiving. * Till 

this hour,' 
Thus, m her Mother's hearing Ellen spake, 
• There was a stony region in my heart ; 
But he, at whose command the parched 

rock 
Was smitten, and poured forth a quenching 

stream. 
Hath softened that obduracy, and made 
Unlooked-for gladness in the desert place, 
To save the perishing ; and, henceforth, I 

breathe 
The air with cheerful spirit, for thy sake 
My Infant ! and for that good Mother dear 
Who bore me, and hath prayed for me in 

vain ; — 
Yet not in vain ; it shall not be in vain.' 
She spake, nor was the assurance unful- 
filled ; 
And if heart-rending thoughts would oft 

return. 
They stayed not long. — The blameless 

Infant grew ; 
The Child whom Ellen and her Mother 

loved 
They soon were proud of ; tended it and 

nursed ; 
A soothing comforter, although forloin ; 
Like a poor singing-bird from distant 

lands ; 
Or a choice shrub, which he, who passes 

by 
With vacant mind, not seldom may (;bserve 
Fair-flowering in a tiiinly-pcopled house, 
Whose window, somewhat sadly, it adorns. 

Through four months' space the Infant 

drew its food 
From the maternal breast ; then scruples 

rose ; 
riioiights, which the rich are free from, 

canip and crossed 
rie fond affection. She no more could 

bear 
By her offence to lay a twofold weight 
On a kind parent willing to forget 
Their slender means ; so, to that parent's 

care 
Trustin-T her child, she left their common 



And undertook with dutiful content 
A Foster-mother's ofhce. 

'Tis, perchance. 
Unknown to you that in these simple vales 
The natural feeling of equality 
Is by domestic service unimpaired ; 
Yet, though si.th service be, with us, removed 
From sense of degradation, not the less 
The ungentle mind can easily find means 
To impose severe restraints and laws unjust, 
Which hapless Ellen now v»„s doomed to 

feel . 
For (blinded by an over anxious dread 
Of such excitement and divided thought 
As with her office would but ill accord) 
Tiie pair, whose infant she was bound to 

nurse. 
Forbad her all communion with her own : 
Week after week, the mandate they enforced, 
— So near ! yet not allowed, upon that sight 
To fix her eyes — alas ! 'twas hard to bear 1 
But worse affliction must be borne — far 

worse ; 
For 'tis Heaven's will that, after a disease 
Begun ana ended within three days' space. 
Her child should die ; as Ellen now cjx- 

claimed. 
Her own — deserted child !— Once, only once, 
She saw it in that mortal malady ; 
And, on the burial-day, could scarcely gain 
Permission to attend its obsequies. 
She reached the house, last of the funeral 

train ; 
And some one, as she entered, having 

chanced 
To urge unthinkingly their prompt depart- 
ure, 
' Nay,' said she, with commanding look, a 

spirit 
Of anger never seen in her before, 
* Nay, ye must wait my. time ! ' and down 

she sate. 
And by tl>e unclosed coffin kept her soflt 
Weeping and looking, looking on and weep- 
ing. 
Upon the last sweet slumber of her Child, 
Until at length her soul was satisfied. 

You see the infant's Grave ; and to thii 

spot, 
The Mother, oft as she was sent abroad, 
On whatsoever errand, ur^cd her steps : 
Hither she came; here stood, and some 

times knelt 
In the broad day, a rueful Magdalene! 
So call her; ff)r not only she bewailed 
A iDother'b loss, but mourned in bittemeM 



674 



THE excursion: 



Her own transsjress'ion ; penitent sincere 
As ever raised to heaven a streaming eye ! 
— At length the parents of the foster child, 
Noting that in despite of their commands 
She still renewed and cmld not but renew 
Those visitations, ceased to 5°nd her forth ; 
Dr to the garden's narrow b nmds confined. 
I failed not to remind them that they erred ; 
For holy Nature might not thus be crossed, 
Thus wronged in woman's breast ; in vain I 

pleaded — 
But the green stalk of Ellen's life was 

snapped, 
And the flower drooped; as every eye could 

see, 
It hung its head in mortal languishment 
— Aided by this appearance, I at length 
Prevailed : and, from those bonds released, 

she vi'ent 
Home to her mother's house. 

The Youth was fled ; 
The rash betrayer could not face the shame 
Or sorrow which his senseless guilt had 

caused ; 
And little would his presence, or proof given 
Of a relenting soul, have now availed ; 
For, like a shadow, he was passed away 
From Ellen's thoughts; had perished to 

her mind 
For all concerns of fears, or hope, or love, 
Save only tiiose which to their common 

shame, 
And to his moral being appertained: 
Hope from that quarter would, I know, have 

brought 
A heavenly comfort ; there she recognized 
An imrelaxing bond, a mutual need; 
There, and, as seemed, there only. 

She had built, 
Her fond maternal heart had built, a nest 
In blindness all too near the river's edge; 
That work a summer flood with hasty swell 
Hao swept away ; and now her Spirit longed 
For its last flight to heaven's security. 
— The bodily frnme wasted from day to day ; 
Meanwhile, relinquishing all other cares, 
Her mind she strictly tutored to find peace 
And pleasure in endurance. Much she 

thought, 
.'Xnd much she read ; and brooded feelingly 
Upon her own iinwortliinc-ss. To me. 
As to a spiritual comforter and friend, 
Her heart she opened ; and no pains were 

spared 
To mitigate, as gently as I could. 
The sting of self-reproach, with healing 

words. 



Meek Saint! through patience glorified ou 

earth I 
In whom, as by her lonely hearth she sate, 
The ghastly face of cold decay put on 
A sun-like beauty, and appeared divine! 
May I not mention that, within those walls, 
In due observance of her pious wish, 
The congregation joined with me in prayer 
For her soul's good ? Nor was that otfice 

vain. 
— Much did she suffer ; but, if any friend, 
Beholding her condition, at the sight 
Gave way to words of pity C)r complain*-, 
She stilled them with a prompt reproof, and 

said, 
' He who afflicts me knows what I can bear ; 
And, wiien I fail, and can endure no more, 
Will mercifully take me to iiimseli,' 
So, through the cloud of d:ath, her Spirit 

passed 
Into that pure and unknown world of love 
Where injury cannot come ; — and here is 

laid 
The mortal Body by her Infant's side." 

The Vicar ceased ; and downcast looks 

made known 
That each had listened with his inmost heart 
For me, the emotion scarcely was less strong 
Or less benign than that which I had felt 
When seated near my venerable Friend, 
Under those shady elms, from him I heard 
The story that retraced the slow decline 
Of Margaret, sinking on tlie lonely heath 
With the neglected house to which She 

clung 
—I noted that the Solitary's cheek 
Confessed the power of nature. — Pkased 

thciigh sad, 
More pleased than sad, the gray-haired Wan- 
derer sate; 
Thanks to his pure imaginative soul 
Capacious and serene ; his blameless life, 
His knowledge, wisdom, love of truth, and 

love 
Of human kind ! He was it who first broke 
The pensive silenc , s\ying . — 

'' Blest are they 
Whose sorrow rather is to suffer wrong 
Than to do wrong, albeit themselves h.v/e 

erred. 
This tale gives proof that Heaven nost 

gently deals 
With such, in their affliction. — Ellen's fate, 
Her tender spirit, and her contrite heart, 
Call to my mind dark hints which 1 have 

heard 



THE EXCURSION. 



^75 



Of one who died within this vale, by doom 
Heavier, as his offence was heavier far. 
Where, Sir, I pray you, where aro laid the 

bones 
Of Wilfred Armathwaite ? ' 

The Vicar answered, 
'• In that green nook, close by the Church- 
yard wall, 
Beneath yon hawthorn, planted by myself 
In memory and for warning, and in sign 
Oi sweetness where dire anguish had been 

known. 
Of reconcilement after deep offence — 
There doth he rest. No theme iiis fate 

supplies [world ; 

For the smooth glozing^s of the indulgent 
Nor need the windings of his devious course 
Be here retraced ;— enough that, by mishap 
And venial error, robbed of competence, 
And her obsequious shadow, peace of mind, 
He craved a substitute in troul^led joy ; 
Against his conscience rose in arms, and, 

braving 
Divine displeasure, broke the marriage-vow. 
That which he had been weak enough to do 
Wae misery in remembrance ; lie was stung. 
Stung by his inward thoughts, and by the 

smiles 
Of wife and children stung to agony. 
Wretched at home, he gained no peace 

abroad ; 
Ranged through the mountains, slept upon 

the earth 
Asked comfort of the open air, and found 
No quiet in the darkness of the night, 
No pleasure in the beauty of the day. 
His flock he slighted : his paternal fields 
Became a clog to him, whose spirit wislied 
To fly — but whither! And this gracious 

Church, 
That wears a look so full of pence and hope 
And love, benignant motlier of the vale. 
How fair amid her brood of cottages ! 
Slie was to him a sickness and reproach. 
Much to the last remained unknown : but 

thi.5 [died ; 

Is sure, that through remorse and grief he 
Though pitied among men, absolved by 

God, 
He could not find forgiveness in himself ; 
Nor could endure the weight of his ow^n 

shame 

Here rests a Moti.er. But from her I 
turn 
AiK? fmm her gravt. — Behold — upon that 
riaj^e. 



That, stretching boldly from th^ mountain 

side, 
Carries into the centre of the vale 
Its rocks and woods — the Cottage where sh« 

dwelt ; 
And where yet dwells her faithful partner, 

left 
(Full eight years past) the solitary prop 
Of many helpless children. I begin 
With words that might be prelude to a talt 
Of sorrow and dejection ; but I feel 
No sadness, when I think of what mine eyes 
See daily in tiiat h;u^py family. 
— Bright garland fur^ii they for the pensive 

brow 
Of their undrooplng Father's widowhood, 
Those six fair daughters, budding yet — not 

one, 
Not one of all the band, a full-blown flower. 
Denrest, and desolate of soul, as once 
That fatlier was, and filled with anxious 

fear, 
Now, by experience targlit, he stands as- 
sured 
That God, who takes away, yet takes not 

half 
Of what he seems to take ; or gives it back, 
Not to our prayer, but far beyond our prayer; 
He gives it — the boon produce of a soil 
Which our endeavors have refused to till, 
And hope hath never watered. The Abode, 
Whose grateful owner can attest these truths 
Even were the object nearer to our sight. 
Would seem in no distinction to surpass 
The rudest habitations. Ye might think 
That it had sprung self-raised from earth, 

or grown 
Out of the living rock, to be adorned 
By nature only ; but, if thither led. 
Ye would discover, then, a studious work 
Of many fancies, prompting many hands. 

Brought from the woods the honeysuckle 

twines 
Around the porch, and seems, in that trim 

place, 
A plant no longer wild ; the cultured rose 
Tlicre blossoms, strong in htrlth, and wiM 

be soon 
Roof-liigh ; the wild pink crowns the garden 

wail. 
And with the flowers are intermingled stones 
Sparry and bright, rough scatterings of the 

hills. 
These ornaments, that fade not with tin 

ypar 
A hardy Girl continues to ^Jiyviuc ; 



676 



THE excursion: 



Who, mounting fearlessly the rocky heights, 
Her Father's prompt attendant, does for 

liim 
All that a boy could do, but with delight 
More keen arid prouder daring ; yet hath she, 
Within the garden, like the rest, a bed 
For her own flowers and favorite herbs, a 

space, 
B ; sacred charter, holden for her use. 
—These, and whatever else the garden bears 
Of fruit or flower, permission asked or not, 
I freely gather; and my leisure draws 
A not unfrequent pastime from the hum 
Of bees around their range of sheltered hives 
Busy in that enclosure ; while the rill, 
That sparkling thrids the rocks, attunes his 

voice 
To the pure course of human life which 

there 
Flows on in solitude. But, when the gloom 
Of night is falling round my steps, then 

niost 



This Dwelling charms me ; often I stop 

short, [my sight 

(Who could refrain?) and feed by stealth 
With prospect of the company within. 
Laid open through the blazing window. — 

there 
I see the eldest Daugliter at her wheel 
Spiiming amain, as if to overtake 
The never-halting time ; or, in her turn, 
Teaching some Novice of the sisterhood 
That skill in this or other household work, 
Which, from her Father's honored hand, 

herself, 
Wiiile she was yet a little-one, had learned. 
Mild Man ! he is not gay, but they are gay ; 
And the whole house seems filled with gayety. 
— Thrice happy, then, the Mother may be 

deemed, 
The Wife, from whose. consolatory grave 
I turned, that ye in mind might v.iiness 

where, 
And how, her Spirit yet survives on earth! * 



BOOK SEVENTH. 



THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE 

IvlO UN TAINS. 

ContimiaL 

ARGUMENT. 

Impression of these Narratives upon the An- 
tlioi's mind — Pastor invited to give account 
of ceitnin Graves tliat lie apart — Clergyman 
and liis family — Fortunate influence of 
change of situation — Activity in extreme 
old age — Another Clergyman, a character of 
resolute Virtue — Lamentations over mis- 
directed apjilause — Instance of less exalted 
excellence in a deaf man — Elevated chnr- 
actei of a blind man— Reflection upon Blind- 
ness—Interrupted by a Peasant who jiasses— 
his animal cheerfulness and careless vivacity 
— He occasions a digression on the fall of 
benutiful and interesting Trees — A female 
Lifant's Grave— Joy at her Birth- Sorrow at 
her Departure — A voutliful Pea.-ant— his 
patriotic enthusiasm and distinguished quali- 
ties— ins untimely death— Exultation of the 
Wanderer, as a natriot, 111 this picture- 
Solitary how affected — Monument of a 
Knight — Traditions concerning him — Pero- 
ration of the Wanderer on tlie transitoriness 
of things and the revolutions of society — 
Hints at his own past Calling — Thanks the 
Pastor. 



While thus from theme to theme the His- 
torian passed. 
The words he uttered, and the scene that 

lay 
Before our eyes, awakened in my mind 
Vivid remembrance of those long-past hours ; 
When, in the hollow of some shadowy vale, 
(What time the splendor of tlie setting sun 
Lay beautiful on Snowdcn's sovereign brow, 
On Cadcr Idris, or huge Penmanmaur) 
A wandering Youth, 1 listened with delight 
To pastoral melody or warlike air, 
Drawn from the chords of the ancient Brit- 
ish harp 
By some accomplished Master, while he sate 
Amid the quiet of the green recess. 
And there did inexhaustibly dispense 
An interchange of soft or solemn tunes. 
Tender or blithe ; now, as the varying mood 
Of his own spirit urged, — now. as a voice 
From youth or maiden, or some honored 

chief 
Of his compatriot villagers (that hung 
Around liim) drinking in the impassioned 

j notes 

I Of the time-hallowed minstrelsy) required 
For their heart's ease or pleasure, Straini 

I of power 



TrrtL EXCURSION', 



67> 



Were they, to seize and occupy the sense ; 
But to a higher mark than song can reach 
Rose this pure eloquence. And, when the 

stream 
Which overflowed the soul was pr.ised 

away, 
k consciousness remained that it had left, 
Deposited upon the silent sliore 
Of memory, images and precious thoughts, 
Tliat shall not die, and cannot be destroyed. 

" These grassy heaps lie amicably close,"' 
Said I, " like surges heaving in the wind 
Along the surface of a mountain pool : 
Whence comes it, then, that yonder we be- 
hold 
Five graves, and only five, that rise together 
Unsociably sequestered, and encroaching 
On the smooth play-giound of the village- 
school ? " 

The Vicar answered, — " No disdainful 

pride 
In them who rest beneath, nor any course 
Of strange or tragic accident, hath iielped 
To place those hillocks in tliat lonely guise. 
^Once more look fortli, and follow with 

your sight 
The length of road that from yon moun- 

tani's base 
Througli bare enclosures stretches, 'till its 

hue 
Is lost within a little tuft of trees ; 
Then, reappearing in a moment, quits 
The cultured fields ; and up the heathy 

- waste. 
Mounts, as you see, in mazes serpentine. 
Led towards an easy outlet of the vale. 
That little shady spot, that svlvan tuft. 
By which the road is hidden, also liides 
A cottage from our view ; thougli I discern 
( Ve scarcely can) amid its sheltering trees 
'J'he smokeless chimney-top. — 

All uncnibowcied 
And naked stood that lowly Parson.Tge 
(For such in truth it is, and appertains 
To a small Chapel in the valo beyond) 
When hither came its last Inhabitant 
Kough and forbidding were the choicest 

I'oads [crossed ; 

By which our northern wilds couUl then be 
Aiid into most of these secluded val s 
Was no access for wain, heavy or lii.iit. 
So, at his dwelling-place the I'riest ar- 
rived 
With store of household ^oods in punnijrs 

alunii; 



On sturf'v horses graced with jingling bells 
And on the back of more ignoble beast ; 
That, with like burthen of effects most 

prized 
Or easiest carried, closed the motley train. 
Young was I then, a school-boy of eight 

years ; 
But still, methinks, I see them as thej 

passed 
In order, drawing toward their wished-for 

home. 

— Rucked by the motion of a trusty ass 
Two ruddy children hung, a well-poised 

freight, 
Each n luh basket nodding drowsily ; 
Their bonnets, I remember, wreathed with 

flowers. 
Which told it was the pleasant month of 

June ; 
And, close behind, the comely Matron rode, 
A woman of soft speech and gracious smile, 
And with a lady's mien. — From far they 

came, 
Even from Northumbrian hills; yet theirs 

had been 
A merry journey, rich in pastime, cheered 
By music, prank, and laughter-stirring jest ; 
And freak put on, and arcli word dropped 

to swell 
The cloud of fancy and uncouth surmise 
That gathered round the slowly-moving 

train. 

— 'Whence do they come ■' and with what 

errand charged 1 
Belong they to the fortune-telling tribe 
Who pitch their tents under the green-wood 

tree ? 
Or Strollers are they, furnished to enact 
Fair Rosamond, and the Children of tiie 

Wood, 
And, by that whiskered tabbv's aid, set 

forth 
The lucky venture of sage Whittington 
When the next village* hears the show an 

nounced 
By blast of trumpet i* ' Plenteous was tin 

growth 
Of sucli conjectures, overheard, or seen 
On many a staring countenance portrayed 
Of boor or burgher, as they marched along. 
And more than once their steadiness of fact 
Was put to i^roof, and exercise supplied 
To their inventive humor, by stern looks, 
And questions in authoritative tone, 
Fnjm some staid guardian of the public 

peace, 
Checking the iober steed on rtlucli he roii^ 



678 



THE EXCVRlUOr^. 



In his suspicious wisdom ; oftener still, 
By notice indirect, or blunt demand 
From traveller halting in his own despite, 
A simple curiosity to ease : 
Of which adventures, that beguiled and 

cheered 
Their grave migration, the good pair would 

tell, 
With undiminished glee, in hoary age. 

A Priest he was by function ; but his 

course 
From his youth up, and high as manhood's 

noon, 
(The hour of life to which he tlien was 

brought) 
Had been irregular, I might say, wild ; 
I3y books unsteadied, by his pastoral care 
Too little checked. An active, ardent 

mind ; 
A fancy pregnant with resource, and scheme 
To cheat the sadness of a rainy day ; 
Hands apt for all ingenious arts and games ; 
A generous spirit, and a body strong 
To cope witli stoutet-t ciumpions of the 

lx)wl ; 
Had earned for him sure welcome, and the 

ri-hts 
Of a prized visitant, in the jolly hall 
Of country 'squire ; or at the statelier board 
Of duke or earl, from scenes of courtly pomp 
Withdrawn, — to wile away the summer 

hours 
In condescension among rural guests. 

With these high comrades he had revelled 

long, 
Frolicked industriously, a simple Clerk 
By hopes of coining patronage beguiled 
Till the heart sickened. So, each loftier 

aim 
Abandoning and all his showy friends. 
For a life's stay (slender it was, but sure) 
He turned to this secluded cliajielry ; 
That had been offered to his doubtful 

choice 
By an unthought-of patron. Bleak and 

bare 
They found the cottage, their allotted 

home ; 
Naked without, and rude within , a spot 
With which the Cure not long had been 

endowed : 
And far remote the chapel stood, — remote. 
And, from his Dwelling, unapproachable. 
Save through a gap high in the hills, an 

opening 



Shadeless and shelterless, by driving 

showers 
Frequented, and beset with liowling winds 
Yet cause was none, whatever regret mighj 

ha.ig 
On his own mind, to quarrel with the choice 
Or the necessity tliat fixed lum here ; 
Apart from old temptations, and constrained 
To punctual labor in his sacred charge. 
See him a constant preacher to the poor! 
And visiting, though not with saintly zeal, 
Yet, when need was, with no reluctant will 
The sick in body, or distrest in mind ; 
And, by a salutary change, compelled 
Tc rise from timely sleep, and meet the 

day [proud 

With no engagement, in his thoughts, more 
Or splendid than his garden could afford, 
His fields, or mountains by the heath-cock 

ranged, 
Or the wild brooks ; from which he now re 

turned 
Contented to partake the quiet meal 
Of his own board, where sat his gentle Mate 
And three fair Children, plentifully fed 
Though simply, from their little household 

farm ; 
Nor wanted timely treat of fish or fowl 
By nature yielded to his practised hand ;- 
To help the small but certain comings-in 
Of that spare benefice. Yet not the less 
Theirs was a hospitable board, and theirs 
A charitable door. 

So days and years 
Passed cr. ; — the inside of that rugged house 
Was trimmed and brightened by the Ma- 
tron's care, 
And gradually enriched with things of 

price. 
Which might be lacked for use or orna- 
ment. 
What, though no soft and costly sofa thert- 
Insiduously stretched out its lazy length, 
And ro vain mirror glittered upon this 

walls. 
Yet were the windows of the low abode 
By shutters weather-fended, which at once 
Repelled the storm and deadened its loud 

roar. 
There snow-white curtains hung in decern 

folds ; 
Tough moss, and long enduring mountain 

plants. 
That creep along the ground with sinuous 

trail, 
Were nicely bi aided j and composed a 

work 



THE excursion: 



h'JX) 



Like Indian mats, that with appropriate 

grace 
Lay at the threshold and the inner doors ; 
And a fair carpet, woven of homespun wool 
But tinctured daintily with florid hues, 
For seemliness and warmth, on festive days. 
Covered the smooth blue slabs of mountain- 
stone 
Witli which the parlor-floor, in simplest 

guise 
Of pastoral homesteads, had been long in- 
laid. 

Those pleasing works the Housewife's 
skill produced : 
Meanwhile the unsedentary Master's hand 
Was busier witli his task — to rid, to plant. 
To rear for food, for shelter, and delight ; 
A thriving covert ! And when wishes, 

formed 
In youth, and sanctioned by the riper mind, 
Restored me to my native valley, here 
To end my days ; well pleased was 1 to see 
The once-bare cottage, on the mountain- 
side, 
Screen'd from assault of every bitter blast ; 
While the dark shadows of the summer 

leaves 
Danced in the breeze, checkering its mossy 

roof. 
Time, which had thus afforded willing help 
To beautify with nature's fairest growths 
Th's rustic tenement, liad gently shed, 
Upon its Master's frame, a wintry grace ' 
The comeliness of unenfeeblcd age. 

But how could I say, gently ? for he still 
Retained a flashing eye, a burning palm, 
A stirring foot, a head which beat at nights 
Upon its pillow with a thousand schemes. 
Few likings had he dropped, few pleasures 

lost; 
Generous and charitable, prompt to serve 
And still his harsher passions kept their 

hold- 
Anger and indignation. Still he loved 
The sound of titled names, and talked in 

glee 
Of long-past banqueting with high-born 

friends : 
Then, from those lulling fits of vain delight 
Uproused dy recollected injury, railed 
At their false ways disdainfully, — and oft 
In bitterness, and with a threatening eye 
Of fire, incensed beneath its hoary brow. 
•—Those transports, with staid looks of pure 

goodwill, 



And with soft smile, his consort would re- 
prove. 
She, far behind him in the race of years, 
Yet keeping her first mildness, was act 

vanced 
Far nearer, in the h:\bit of her soul, 
To that still region winther all are bound. 
Him might we liken to the setting sun 
As seen not seldom on some gusty day. 
Struggling and bold, and shining from (ht 

west 
With an inconstant and unmellowed light ; 
She was a soft attendant cloud, that huu;.' 
As if with wish to veil the restless orb , 
From which it did itself imbibe a ray 
Of pleasing lustre. — l>ut no more of this ; 
I better love to sprinkle on the sod 
That now divides the pair, or rather say. 
That still unites them, praises, like hcavtn'a 

dew, 
Without reserve descending upon both. 

Our very first in eminence of years 
This old Man stood, the patriarch of the 

Vale ! 
And, to his unmolested mansion, death 
Had never come, through space of forty 

years ; 
Sparing both old and voung in that abode. 
Suddenly then they disappeared; not twice 
Had summer scorched the fields , not twice 

had fallen. 
On those high peaks, the first autumnal 

snow, 
Before the greedy visitmg was closed, 
And the long-privileged house left empty- 
swept 
As by a plague. Yet no rapacious plague 
Had boen among them; all was gentle 

death, 
One after one, with intervals of peace. 
A liappy consummation ! an accord 
Sweet, perfect, to be wished for ! save that 

here 
Was something which to mortal sense might 

sound 
Like harshness, — that the old gray-headec* 

Sire, 
The oldest, he was taken last, survived 
Wiien the meek Partner of his age, hu 

Son, 
His daughter, and that late and high-prized 

.?ift', 
His little smiling Grandchild, were no more 

' All gone, all vanished ! he deprivetl and 
bare, 
How will he face the remnant of lui life? 



6So 



rriE ExrvRsroN 



What will become of liiiTj?' we said, and 

mused 
In sad conjectures — ' Shall we meet liim 

now 
Haunting with rod and line the craggy 

brooks P 
Or shall we overhear him. as we pass, 
Striving to entertain the lonely hours 
With music?' (for he had not ceased to 

touch 
I'h.e harp or viol which liimsclf had framed, 
For their sweet purposes, witli perfect skill. ) 
' Wliat titles will he keep? will he remam 
Musician, gardener, builder, mechanist, 
A planter, and a rearer from the seed? 
A man of hope and forward-looking mind 
Even to the last!' — Such was he, unsub- 
dued. 
But Heaven was gracious; yet a little 

while, 
x\nd this Stwvivor, with his cheerful throng 
Of open projects, and his inward hoard 
Of unsunned griefs, too many and too 

keen, 
Was overcome by unexpected sleep. 
In one blest moment. Like -a shadow 

thrown 
Softly and lightly from a passing cloud, 
Death fell upon hnii, while reclined he 

lay 
For noontide solace on the summer gra-ss, 
'j'he warm lap of his mother earth : and so. 
Their lenient term of separation past, 
That lamily (whose graves you there be- 
hold) 
By yet a liigher privilege once more 
Were gathered to each other." 

Calm of mind 
And silence waited on these closing words 
Until the Wanderer (whether moved by , 

fear 
Lest in those passages of life were some 
That might have touched the sick heart of 

his Friend 
Too nearly, or intent to reinforce 
His own firm spirit in degree deprest 
By tender sorrow for our mortal state) 
Thus silence broke — " Behold a thought- 
less Man 
From vice and premature decay preserved 
By useful habits, to a htter soil 
Transplanted ere too late — The hermit, 

lodged 
Amid the untrodden desert, tells his beads. 
With each repeating its allotted prayer. 
And thus divides and thus relieves the 
time; 



Smooth task, with Jus compared, whose 

mind could string, 
Not scantily, bright minutes on the thread 
Of keen domestic anguish ; and Iveguile 
A solitude, unchosen, unprofessed ; 
Till gentlest death released him. 

Far from us 
Be the desire too curiously to ask 
How much of this is but the blind result 
Of cordial spirits and vital temperament. 
And what to higher powers is justly due. 
But you, Sir, Know that in a neighboring 

vale 
A Priest abides before whose life such 

doubts 
Fall to the ground , whose gifts of nature 

lie 
Retired from notice, lost in attributes 
Of reason, honorably effaced by debts 
Which her poor treasure-house is content 

to owe, 
And conf|acsts over her dominion gained, 
To which her frowardness must needs sub- 
mit. 
In this one Man is shown a temperance — 

proof 
Against all trials ; industry severe 
And constant as the motion of the day ; 
Stern self-denial round him spread, with 

shade 
That might be deemed forbidding, did not 

there 
All generous feelings flourish and rejoice; 
Forbearance, charity in deed and thought. 
And resolution competent to take 
Out of the bosom of simplicity 
•All that her holy customs recommend, 
.And the best ages of the world prescribe. 
— Preaching;, administering, m every work, 
Of his sublime vocation, m the walks 
Of worldly intercourse between man and 

man, 
.And in his humble dwelling, he appears 
A laborer, with moral virtue girt. 
With spiritual graces, like a glory, crowned." 
" Doubt can be none," the Pastor said, 

for whom 
This portraiture is sketched. The great, 

the good. 
The well-beloved, the fortunate, the wise. 
These titles emperors and cinefs have 

borne. 
Honor assumed or given : and him, the 

Wonderful, 
Our simple shepherds, speaking from the 

heart, 
Deservedly have styled. — From his abode 



THE excursion: 



681 



In a dependent chapelry tliat lies 
Behind yon hill, a poor and rugged wild, 
Which in his soul he lovingly embraced. 
And, having once espoused, would never 

quit ; 
Into its graveyard will ere long be borne 
That lowly, great, good Man. A simple 

stone 
Ma> cover him ; and by its help, perchance, 
A century shall hear his name pronounced, 
With images attendant on the sound ; 
Then, shall the slowly-gathermg twiligiit 

close 
In utter night ; and of his course remain 
No cognizable vestiges, no more 
Than of this breath, which shapes itself in 

words 
To speak of him, and instantly dissolves." 

The Pastor, pressed by thoughts which 
round his theme 
Still linger'd, after a brief pause, resumed ; 
" Noise is there not enough in doleful war. 
But tliat the heaven-born p jet must stand 

forth, 
And lend the echoes of his sacred shell. 
To multiply and aggravate the din ? 
Pangs are there not enough in hopeless 

love — 
And, in requited passion, all too much 
Of turbulence, anxiety, and fear — 
But that the minstrel of tlie rural shade 
Must tune his pipe, insidiously to nurse 
The perturbation in the suffering breast. 
And propagate its kind, far as he may ? 
—Ah who (and with such rapture as befits 
Tlie hallowed theme) will rise and celebrate 
Tlie good man's purp()S:s and deeds ; r^*- 

trace 
His struggles, his discomfitures deplore, 
His triumphs hail, and glorify his end ; 
That virtue, like the fumes and vapory 
clouds [brain, 

Through fancy's heat redounding m the 
And like the soft infections of the heart, 
By inrnl of measured words may spread 

o'er field, 
Hamlet, and town ; and piety survive 
Upon the lips of men in hall or bovver; 
Not for reproof, but high and warm delight, 
And grave encouragement, by song in- 
spired ? 
—Vain thought ! but wherefore murmur or 

rei)ino ? 
The memory of the just survives in heaven : 
And, without S(jrrow, will the ground re- 
ceive 



That venerable clay. Meanwhile the best 
Of what lies here confines us to degrees 
In excellence less difficult to reach, 
1 And milder worth ; nor need we travel far 
I From tliose to whom our last regards wen 

paid. 
For such example. 
I Almost at the root 

I Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare 
j And slender stem, while here I sit at eve, 
I Oit stretches toward me, like a long straight 

patii 
Traced faintly in the greensward ; there 

beneath 
A plain blue stone, a gentle Dalesman lies, 
From whom, in early childhood, was with 

drawn 
The precious gift of hearing. He grew up 
From year to year in loneliness of .^^oul ; 
And this deep mountain-valley was to him 
Soundless, with all its streams. The bird 

of dawn 
Did never rouse this Cottager from sleep 
With startling summons ; not for his de- 

light 
The vernal cuckoo shouted ; not for him 
Murmured the laboring bee. When winds 
Were working tlie broad bosom of the lake 
Into a tliousand thousand sparkling waves, 
Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud 
Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags. 
The agitated scene before his eye 
Was silent as a picture : evermore 
Were all things silent, wheresoc'cr he 

moved. 
Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts 
Uplield, he duteously pursued the round - 
Of rural labors ; the steep mountain-side 
Ascended, with his staff and faithful dog ; 
The plough he guided, and the scythe lio 

swayed ; 
And the ripe corn before his sickle fell 
Among the jocund reapers. For himself, 
All watchful and industrious as he was, 
He wrought not: neither field nor flock he 

owned : 
No wish for wealth had place within his 

mind ; 
Nor husband's love, nor fathers hope oi 

care. \x\ox\i 

Though born a younger brother, need w.is 
That from the floor of his paterni<) home 
He should depart, to plant himsui anew. 
And when, mature in manhood, he l:)eheld 
His parents laid in earth, no loss ensued 
Of rights to him J but he 1 uiuined wati 

pleased, 



682 



THE excursion: 



iiv tlie pure bend of independent love, 

An iiiniate of a second family ; 

Tlie fellow-laborer and friend of him 

To whom the small iniicritance had fallen. 

— Nor deem that his mild presence was a 

weight 
That pressed upon his brother's house ; for 

books 
Were ready comrades whom he could not 

tire ; 
Of whose society the blameless Man 
Was never satiate. Tlieir familiar voice, 
Kven to old age, witli unabated charm 
lieguiled his leisure hours ; refreshed his 

thoughts ; 
Beyond its natural elevation raised 
His introverted spirit; and bestowed 
Upon his life an outward dignity 
Which all acknowledged. The dark winter 

night, 
The stormy day. each had its own resource ; 
Song of the muses, sage historic tale, 
Science severe, or word of holy Writ 
Announcing immortality and joy 
To tiie assembled spirits of just men 
Made jierfect, and from injury secure. 
• — Tluis soothed at home, thus busy in the 
To no perverse suspicion he gave way. 
No languor, peevishness, nor vain com- 
plaint 
And they who were about him did not fail 
In reverence, or in courtesy ; they prized 
His gentle manners ; and his peaceful smiles. 
The gleams of his slow-varying countenance, 
Were met with answering sympathy and 

love. 

At length, when sixty years and five' were 

told, 
A slow diseased insensibly consumed 
The powers of nature : and a few short steps 
Of friends and kindred bore him from his 

home 
(Von cottage shaded by the wcody crags) 
To tiie profounder stillness of the grave. 
— Nor was his funeral denied the grace 
Of many tears, virtuous and thoughtful 

grief; 
Heart-sorrow rendered sweet by gratitude. 
And now that monumental stone preserves 
His name, and unambitiously relates 
How long, and by what kindly outward aids, 
And in what pure contentedness of mind, 
Thv.- sad privation was by him endured. 
— And yon tall pine-tree, whose composing 

sound 
Was wasted on the good Man's living ear, 



Hath now its own peculi ir sanctity ; 

And, at the touch of every wandering breeze. 

Murmurs, not idly, o'er his peaceful grave. 

Soul-cheering Light, most bountiful o< 
_ filings ! 
Guide of our way, mysterious comforter ! 
Whose sacred influence, spread through 

earth and heaven. 
We all too thanklessly participate. 
Thy gifts were utterly withheld from him 
Whose place of rest is near yon ivied porch. 
Yet, of the wild brooks ask if he com> 

plained ; 
Ask of the channelled rivers if they lield 
A safer, easier, more determined course. 
What terror doth it strike into the mind 
To think of one, blind and alone, advanciii:^ 
Straight towards some prccipxe's airy 

brink ! 
But, timely warned, He would have stayed 

his steps, 
Protected, say enlightened, by his ear ; 
And on the very edge of vacancy 
Not more endangered than a man whose 

eye 
Beholds the gulf beneath, — No floweret 

blooms 
Througliout the lofty range of these rough 

hills. 
Nor in the woods that could from him con- 
ceal 
Its Ijirth-place ; none whose fi'jure did not 

live 
Upon his touch. The bowels of the earth 
Enriched with knowledge his industrious 

mind ; 
The ocean paid him tribute from the stores 
LcKlged in her bosom ; and, by science led, 
His genius mounted to the plains of heaven. 
— Methinks 1 see him— how his eye-balls 

rolled. 
Beneath his ample brow, in darkness 

paired, — 
But each instinct with spirit ; and the frame 
Of tlie whole countenance alive with thought. 
Fancy, and understanding ; while the voicf 
I")iscoursed of natural or moral truth 
With eloquence, and such authentic power 
That, in his presence, humbler knowledg* 

stood 
Abashed, and tender pity overawed.'' 



" A noble — and, to unreflecting minds, 
A marvellous spectacle," the Wanderd 

said. 



THE EXCURSION 



683 



" Beings like these present ' But proof 

abounds 
Upon ^i\Q. earth that faculties, which seem 
Extin^juished, do not, therefore, cease to be. 
*.nd to the mind among her powers of sense 
This transfer is permitted, — not alone 
That the bereft their recompense may \vm ; 
But for remoter purposes of love 
And charity ; nor last nor least for this, 
Thit to the imagination may be given 
A type and shadow of an awful truth ; 
How, likewise, under sufferance divine, 
Darkness is banished from the realms of 

death. 
By man's imperishable spirit, quelled. 
Unto the men who see not as we see 
Futurity was thought, in ancient times, 
To be laid open, and they prophesied. 
And know we not that from the blind have 

flowed 
The highest, holiest, raptures of the lyre ; 
And wisdom married to immortal verse ? " 

Among the humbler Worthies, at our 

feet 
Lying insensible to human praise. 
Love, or regret, — xvJiose lineaments would 

next 
Have been portrayed, I guess not ; but it 

chanced 
That, near the quiet church-yard where we 

sate, 
A team of horses, with a ponderous freight 
Pressing behind, adown a rugged slope. 
Whose sharp descent confounded their 

array, 
Came at that moment, ringing noisily. 

" Here," said the Pastor, " do we muse, 

and mourn 
The waste of death ; and lo ! the giant oak 
Stretched on his bier — that massy timber 

wain ; 
Nor fail to note the Man who guides the 

team.'' 

He was a peasant of the lowest class ' 
Gray locks profusely round his temples 

hung 
In clustering curls, like ivy, which the bite 
Of winter cannot thin ; the fresh air lodged 
Within his cheek, as light within a cloud ; 
And he returned our greeting with a smile. 
When he had passed, the Solitary spake ; 
" A Man he seemr> of cheerful yesterdays 
Ai d confident to-morrows ; witli a face 
Not worldly-minded, for it bears too much 



Of Nature's impress, — gayety and health, 
Freedom and hope ; but keen, withal, and 

shrewd. 
His gestures note, — and hark I his tones 0/ 

voice 
Are all vivacious as his mien and looks.'* 

The Pastor answered " You have read 

him well. 
Year after year is added to his store 
With silent increase * summers, winters — 

past, 
Past or to come ; yea, boldly mi-^ht I say, 
Ten summers and ten winters of a space 
That lies beyond life's ordinary bounds 
Upon his sprightly vigor cannot fix 
The obligation of an anxious mind, 
A pride in having, or a fear to lose , 
Possessed like outskirts of some large 

domain, 
By any one more thought of than by him 
Who holds the land in fee, its careless lord! 
Yet is the creature rational, endowed 
With foresight ; hears, too, every sabbath 

day. 
The christian promise with attentive ear , 
Nor Will, 1 trust, the Majesty of Heaven 
Reject the incense offered up by him, 
Though of the kind which beasts and birds 

present 
In grove or pasture; cheerfulness of soul. 
From trepidation and repining free. 
How many scrupulous worshippers fall 

down 
Upon their knees, and daily homage pay 
Less worthy, less religious, even, than his ! 

This qualified respect, the old Man's due, 
Is paid without reluctance; but m truth,'' 
(Said the good Vicar with a lond half 

smile) 
" I feel at times a motion of despite 
Towards one, whose bold contrivances and 

skill. 
As you have seen, bear such conspicuous 

part 
In works of havoc ; taking from these vales, 
One after one, their proudest ornaments. 
Full oft his doings leave me to deplore 
Tall ash-tree, sown by winds, by vapors 

nursed, 
In tne dry crannies of the pendent rocks; 
Light birch, aloft upon the horizon's edge, 
A veil of glory for the ascending moon ; 
And oak whose roots by noontide dew wer« 

damped, 
And on whose forehead inaccessible 



684 



THE EXCURSION. 



The raven lodged in safety. — Many a ship 
Launclied into Morecamb-bay to Ii'un hath 

owed 
Her strong knee-timbers, and the mast that 

bears 
The loftiest of l;er pendants ; He, from 

park 
Or forest, fetched the enormous axle-tree 
That wliirls (how slow itstlt !) ten thousand 

spindles : 
And the vast engine laboring in the mine, 
Content with meaner prowess, must have 

lacked 
The trunk and body of its marvellous 

strength, 
If his undaunted enterprize had failed 
Among the mountain coves. 

Yon household fir, 
A guardian planted to fence off tlie blast, 
But towering high the roof above, as if 
Its humble destination were forgot — 
Tliat sycamore, which annually holds 
Witliin its shade, as in a stately tent 
On all sides open to the fanning breeze, 
A grave assemblage, seated while they shear 
The fleece-encumbered flock — the Joyful 

Elm, 
Around whose trunk the maidens dance in 

May— 
And tlie Lord's Oak — would plead their 

several rights 
In vain, if he were master of their fate ; 
His sentence to the a.x.e would doom them 

all. 
But, green in age and lusty as he is. 
And promising to keep his hold on earth 
Less, as might seem, in rivalship with men 
Than with the forests more enduring growth. 
His own appointed hour will come at last ; 
And, like the haughty Spoilers of the world, 
This keen Destroyer, in his turn, must fall, 

Now from the living pass we once again : 
From Age,'' the Priest continued, " turn 

your thoughts : 
From Age, that often unlamented drops, 
And marks that daisied hillock, three spans 

long ! 
—Seven lusty Sons sate daily round the 

board 
Of Gold-rill side ; and, when the hope had 

ceased 
Of other progeny, a Daughter then 
Was given, the crowning bounty of the 

whole ; 
And so acknowledged with a trennilous joy 
Felt to the centre of that heavenly calm 



With which by nature every mother's soul 
Is stricken in the moment when hei throes 
Are ended, and her ears have heard the cfT 
Which tells her that a living child is born , 
And she lies conscious, in a blissful rest. 
That the dread storm is weathered by then 
both. 

The Father — him at this unlocked fai 

gift 
A bolder transport seizes. From the side 
Of his bright hearth, and from his open 

door. 
Day after day the gladness is diffused 
To all that come, almost to all that pass ; 
Invited, summoned, to partake the cheer 
Spread on the never-empty board, and 

drink [s'''. 

Health and good wishes to his new-born 
From cups replenished by his joyous hand. 
— Those seven fair brothers variously were 

moved 
Each by the thoughts best suited to his 

years : 
But most of all and with most thankful mmd 
The hoary grandsire felt himself enriched ; 
A happiness that ebbed not, but remained 
To fill the total measure of his soul ! 
From the low tenement, his own abode, 
Whither, as to a little private cell, 
He had withdrawn from bustle, care, and 

noise, 
To spend the sabbath of old age in peace, 
Once every day he duteously repaired 
To rock the cradle of the slumbering babe : 
For in that female infant's name he heard 
The silent name of his departed wife ; 
Heart-stirring music! hourly heard that 

name ; 
Full blest he was, * Another Margaret 

Green,' 
Oft cUd he say, * was come to Gold-iill side.' 

Oh ! pang unthought of, as the precious 
boon [stroke 

Itself had been unlooked-for; oh! dire 
Of desolating anguish for them all ! 
— Just as the Child could totter on the floor, 
And, by some friendly finger's help up- 
stayed. 
Range round the garden walk, while she 

perchance 
Was catching at some novelty of spring, 
Ground-tlower, or glossy insect from its 

cell 
Drawn by the sunshine — at that hopeful 
season 



THE EXCURSION. 



685 



The winds of March, smiting insidiously, 
Raised in the tender passage of the throat 
Viewless obstruction ; whence, all unforc- 

warned, 
The household lost their pride and soul's 

delight. 
•-But time hath power to soften all regrets, 
And prayer and thought can bring to worst 

distress 
Due resignation. Therefore, though some 

tears 
Fail not to spring from either Parent's eye 
Oft as tliey hear of sorrow like their own, 
Vet tills departed Little-one. too long 
The innocent troubler of their quiet, sleeps 
In what may now be called a peaceful bed. 

On a bright day — so calm an- brigut, it 
seemed 
To us, witli our sad spirits, heavenly fair — 
Tiiesc mountains echoed to an unknown 

sound ; 
A volley, thrice repeated o'er the Corse 
Let down mto the hollow of that grave. 
Whose shelving sides are red with naked 

mould. ■ 
Yc rains of April, duly wet this earth ! 
Spare, burning sun of midsummer, these 

sods, 
That they may knit together, and therewith 
Our thoughts unite in kindred quietness ! 
Nor so the Valley shall forget her loss. 
Dear Vouth, by young and old alike be- 
loved, 
To me as precious as my own !— Green 

herbs 
May creep (I wish that they would softly 

creep) 
Over thy last abode, and we may pass 
Reminded less imperiously of thee ; — 
The ridge itself rnay sink into the breast 
Of cartli, the great abyss, and be no more : 
Yet shall not thy remembrance leave our 

hearts, 
Thy image disappear! 

The Mountain-ash 
No eye can overlook, when 'mid a grove 
Of yet unfaded trees she lifts her head 
Decked with autumnal berries, that out- 
shine 
Spring's richest blossoms; and ye may have 

marked. 
By a brook-side or solitary tarn. 
How she her station doth adorn : the pool 
Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks 
Are brightened round her. in his native 
vale 



Such and so glorious did this Youth ap- 
pear ; 
A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts 
By his ingenuous beauty, by the gleam 
Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow. 
By all the graces with which nature's hand 
Had lavishly arrayed him. As old bards 
Tell m their idle songs of wandering gods. 
Pan or Apollo, veiled in human form ; 
Yet, like the sweet-breathed violet of the 

shade 
Discovered in th.cir own despite to sense 
Of mortals (if sucli fables witiiout blame 
May find chancc-niLntion on this sacred 

ground) 
So, through a simple rustic garb's dis> 

guise. 
And through the impediment of rural cares. 
In him revealed a scholar's genius shone ; 
And so, not wholly hidden from men's 

sight, 
In him the spirit of a hero walked 
Our unpretending valley. — How the quoit 
Whizzed from the stripling's arms ! If 

touched b. him. 
The inglonoub foot-ball mounted to the 

pitch 
Of the lark's flight,— or shaped a rainbow 

curve. 
Aloft, in prospect of the shouting field ! 
The indefatigable fox had learned 
To dread his" perseverance in the chase. 
With admiration would he lift his eyes 
To the wide-ruling eagle, and his hand 
Was loth to assault the majesty he loved : 
Else had the strongest fastnesses proved 

weak 
To guard the royal brood The sailing 

glead. 
The wheeling swallow, and the darting 

snipe. 
The sportive sea-gull dancing witli the 

waves, 
And cautious water-fowl, from distant 

climes, 
Fixed at their seat, the centre of the Mere, 
Were subject to young Oswald's steady aim. 
And lived by his forbearance. 

From the coast 
Of France a boastful Tyrant hurled his 

threats; 
Our Country marked the preparation vast 
Of hostile forces ; and she called— with 

voice 
That filled her jjlains, that reached her ut- 
most' shores, 
And in remotest vales was heard — to arms 



6Sft 



^HE EXCURSION. 



Then^ for the first time, here you might 

have seen 
The shepherd's gray to martial scarlet 

changed, 
That flashed uncouthly through the woods 

and fie.ds, 
Ten hardy StripHngs, all in bright attire, 
And graced with shining weapons, weekly 

marched, 
From this lone valley, to a central spot 
Where, in assemblage with the tiower and 

choice 
Of the surrounding district, they might 

learn 
The rudiments of war ; ten— hardy, strong, 
And valiant ; but young Oswald, like a 

chief 
And yet a modest comrade, led them forth 
From their shy solitude, to face the world, 
With a gay confidence and seemly piide ; 
Measuring the soil beneath their happy feet 
Like Youths released from labor, and yet 

bound 
To most laborious service, though to them 
A festival of unencumbered ease ; 
The inner spirit keeping holiday, 
Like vernal ground to sabbath sunshine 

left. 

Oft have I marked him, at some leisure 

hour, 
Gtretched on the grass, or seated in the 

shade, 
Among his fellows, while an ample map 
Before their eyes lay carefully outspread, 
From which the gallant teacher would dis- 
course, 
Now pointing this way, nd now that. — 

' Here flows,' 
Tims would he say, ' The Rhine, that famous 

stream ! 
Eastward, the Danube toward this inland 

sea, 
A mightier river, winds from realm to 

realm ; 
And, like a serpent, shows his glittering 

back 
Bespotted — with innumerable isles : 
Here reigns the Russian, there the Turk ; 

observe 
His capital city ! ' Thence, along a tract 
Of livelier interest to his hope and fears. 
His finger moved, distinguishing the spots 
Where wide-spread conflict then most 

fiercely raged ; 
Nor left unstigmatizcd those fatal fields 
On which Uie sonsof mighty Germany 



Were taught a base submission.— * Hei« 

behold 
A nobler race, the Switzers, and their land, 
Vales deeper far than these of ours, hug« 

woods, 

And mountains, white with everlasting 
snow 1 ' 

— And, sure'iy, he, that spake with kin- 
dling brow, 

Was a true j^atriot, hopeful as the best 

Of that young peasantry, who, in our days, 

Have fought and perished for Helvetia's 
rights — 

Ah, not in vain ! — or thoSe who, hi old 
time. 

For work of happier issue, to the side 

Of Tell came trooping from a thousand 
huts, 

When he had risen alone ! No braver 
Youth 

Descended from Judean heights, to march 

With righteous Joshua; nor appeared m 
arms 

When grove was felled, and altar was cast 
down. 

And Gideon blew the trumpet, soul- 
inflamed, 

And strong in hatred of idolatry." 

The Pastor, even as if by these last 

words 
Raised from his seat within the chosen 

shade, 
Moved toward the grave ; — instinctively his 

steps 
We followed ; and my voice with joy ex- 
claimed : 
Power to the Oppressors of the world is 

given, 
A might of which they dream not. Oh \ 

the curse, 
To be the awakener of divinest thoughts,. 
Father and founder of exalted deeds ; 
And, to whole nations bound in servile 

straits, 
The liberal donor of capacities 
More than heroic ! this to be, nor j^et 
Have sense of one unnatural wish, nor yet 
Deserve the least return of human thanks j 
Winning no recompense but deadly hate 
With pity mixed, astonishment with 

scorn ! " 

When this involuntary strain had ceased, 
The Pastor said • " So Providence i4 

served ; 
The forked weapon of the skies can send 



7 HE EXCCRSrON'. 



687 



TlUiniinaf.on in';o deep, dark holds, 

\\ hicli the mild sunbeam hath not power 

to pierce. 
Ve Thrones that have defied remorse, and 

cast 
Pity away, soon shall j-e quak-j vi'x'Ctx fear ! 
For, not unconscious of the mighty depth 
Whic"h to outrageous wrong the sufferer 

owes, 
Europe, through all her habitable bounds, 
Is tliirsting for their overthrow, wlio yet 
Survive, as j^agan temples stood of yore, 
By horror of their impious rites, i re- 
served ; 
Are still jiermittcd to extend their pride, 
Like cedars on the top of Lebanon 
Darkening the sun. 

But less impatient thou:^hts, 
And love ' all hoping and expecting all,' 
This liallowed grave demands, where rests 

in peace 
A Iiumble champion of the better cause ; 
A Peasant-youth, so call Iiini, for he asked 
No higher name ; in whom our country 

showed. 
As in a favorite son, most beautiful. 
In spite of vice, and misery, and cUsease, 
Spread with the spreading of her wealtliy 

arts, 
England, the ancient: and the free, appeared 
In him to stand before my swimming eyes. 
Unconquerably virtuous and secure. 
— No more of this, lest I offend his dust : 
Short was his life, and a brief tale remains. 

One day — a summer's day of annual 

pomp 
And soknin chase — from morn to sultry 

noon 
His steps had followed, fleetest of the fleet, 
Tho red-deer driven along its native hciglits 
\Vi':h cry of hound and horn ; and, from 

that toil 
Returned with sinews weakened, and re- 
laxed, [self, 
This generous Yoiitli, too negligent of 
Plunged — 'mid a gay and busy throng 

convened 
To wash the fleeces of his Father's flock 
Into the chilling flood. Convulsions dire 
Seized him, that self-same night ; and 

through the space 
Of twelve ensuing days his frame vras 

wrenched, 
Till nature rested from her work in dcatli. 
To him, thus snatched away, his comrades 

paid 



A soldier's honors. At his funeral hour 
Bright was the sun, the sky a cloudless 

blue — 
A golden lustre slept ujion the hills ; 
And if by chance a stranger, waitdcring 

there. 
From some commanding eminence 'hac 

looked 
Down on this spot, well pleased would he 

have seen 
A glittering spectac'o ; but evcrv face 
Was pallid : seldom hath that eye b.-cn 

moist 
With tears that wept not then ; nor were 

the few, 
V.'ho from their dwellings came not fortli to 

join 
In this sad service, less distiubcd than w;, 
Tliey started at the tributary peal 
Of instantaneous thunder, which announced, 
Through the still air, tiie closing of tlie 

Crave ; 
And distant mountains echoed with a 

sound 
Of lamentation, never heard before ! '' 

The Pastor ceased. — My venerable 

Friend 
Victoriously upraised his clear bright eye ; 
.And, when that cu'ogy was ended, stood 
Enrapt. as it li.s inward sense perceived 
The prolong.ition of .some still respon.se, 
Sent by the ancient i-^oul of this wide land. 
The Spirit of its mountains and its seas, 
Its cities, temples, hckis, its awful power, 
Its rights and virtues— by that Deity 
Descending, and suj^porting his pure heart 
With patriotic confidence and joy. 
.And, at the last of those memorial words, 
The pining Solitary turned aside : 
Whether through manly instinct to concc;d 
Tender emotions spreading from the heatt 
To his worn cheek ; or witli uneasy shame 
For those cold ii imors of habitual spleen 
That, fondly sceldng in dispraise of man 
Solace and self-excuse, had sometime*" 

urged 
To self-abuse a not ineloquent tongue. 
— Right toward the sacred Editicj h's 

steps 
Had bjcn directed , pnd we saw him now 
lotent upon a monumental stone. 
Whose uncouth form was grafted on tht 

wall, [side 

Or rather seemed to have grown into tha 
Of t'l? rude pile ; as oft-times trunks of 

trees. 



688 



THE EXCURSION. 



Where nature works in wild and craggy- 
spots, 
Are seen incoporate with tlie living rock — 
To endure for aye. The Vicar, taking note 
Of his employment, with a courteous smile 
T^xclaimed — 

" The sagest Antiquarian's eye 
That task would foil;'' then, letting fall 

his voice 
While he advanced, thus spake : " Tradition 

tells 
That, in Eliza's golden days, a Knight 
Came on a war-horse sumptously attired, 
And Hxed his home in this sequestered 

vale. 
'Tis left untold if here he first drew breath, 
Or as a stranger reache'.l this deep recess, 
Unknowing and unknown. A pleasing 

thought 
I sometimes entertain, that haply bound 
To Scotland's court in service of his 

Queen, 
Or sent on mission to some northern Chief 
Of Endland's realm, this vale he might have 

seen 
With transient observation ; and thence 

caught 
An image fair, which, brightening in his 

soul 
When joy of war and pride of chivalry 
Languished beneath accumulated years. 
Had power to draw him from the world, re- 
solved 
To make that paradise his chosen home 
To which his peaceful fancy oft had turned. 

Vague thoughts are these ; but, if belief 
may rest 
Upon unwritten story fondly traced 
From sire to son, in this obscure retreat 
The Knight arrived, with spear and shield, 

arkd borne 
Upon a Charger gorgeously bedecked 
With broidered housings. And the lofty 

Steed— 
His sole companion, and his faithful friend, 
Whom he, in gratitude, let loose to range 
In fertile pastures — was beheld with eyes 
Of admiration and delightful awe, 
By those untravelled Dalesmen. With less 

pride,' 
Yet free from touch of envious discontent. 
They saw a mansion at his bidding rise, 
Likt- a bright star, amid the lowly l3and 
Of their rude homesteads. Here the War- 
rior dwelt ; 
And, in that mansion, children of his own, 



Or kindred, gathered round him. As a 

tree 
That falls and disappears, the house is 

gone ; 
And, through improvidence or want of love 
For ancient worth and honorable things. 
The spear and shield are vanished, which 

the Knight 
Hung in his rustic hall. One ivied arch 
Myself have seen, a gateway, last remains 
Of tliat foundation in domestic care 
Raised by his hands. And now no trace is 

left 
Of the mild-hearted Champion, save this 

stone. 
Faithless memorial ! and his family name 
Borne by yon clustering cottages, that 

sprang 
From out the ruins of his stately lodge ; 
These, and the name and title at fuil 

length, — 
Si\X iVlfrciJ Jrtinjl, with appropriate 

words 
Acconipar.ied, still extant, in a wreath 
Or posy, girding round the several fronts 
Of three clear sounding and harmonious 

bells. 
That in the steeple hang, his pious 51ft." 

" So fails, so languishes, ijrows dim, and 
dies," 
The gray-hair:;d Wanderer pensively ex- 
claimed, 
" All that this world is proud of. From 

their spheres 
The stars of human glory are cast down ; 
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings, 
Princes and emperors, and the crowns and 

palms 
Of all the mighty, withered and con- 
sumed ! 
Nor is power given to lowliest innocence 
Long to protect her own. The man him- 
self 
Departs ; and soon is spent the line of 

those 
Who, in the bodily image, in the mind, 
In heart or soul, in station or pursuit. 
Did most resemble him. Degrees and 

ranks, 
Fraternities and orders — heaping high 
New wealth upon the burthen of the old, 
And placing trust in privilege confirmed 
And re-rontirmed — are scoffed at with a 

smile 
Of greedy foretaste, from the secret stand 
Of Desolation, aimed : to slow decline 



THE EXCURSION. 



G89 



These yield, and these to sudden over- 
throw : 
Their virtue, service, happiness, and state 
Expire ; and nature's pleasant robe cf 

green, 
Humanity's appointed shroud, enwraps 
Their monuments and their mtn.ory. The 

vast frame 
Of social natuie changes evermore 
Her organs and her members with decay 
Restless, and restless generation, powers 
And functions dying and produced at 

need, — 
And by this law the mighty whole sub- 
sists : 
With an ascent and progress in the main : 
Vet, oh 1 how disproportioned to the 

liopes 
And expectations of self-flattering minds ! 



The courteous Knight, whose bones art! 

here interred, 
Lived in an age conspicuous as our own 
For strife and ferment in the minds of 

men ; 
Whence alteration in the forms of things. 
Various and vast. A memorable age ! 
Which did to him assign a pensive lot — 
To linger 'mid the last of those bright 

clouds 
That, on the steady breeze of honor, sailed 
In long procession calm and bcai'.tiful 
He who had seen his own bright order fade. 
And its devotion gradually decline, 
(While war, relinquishing the lance and 

shield, 
Her temper changed, and bowed to other 

laws) 
Had also witnessed, in his morn of life. 
That violent commotion which o'erthrew. 
In town and city and sequestered glen, 
Altar and cross, and church of solemn roof, 
And old religious hcmse— pile after pile ; 



And shook their tenants out into the fields, 
Like wild beasts without home ! Their 

hour was come ; 
But why no softening thought of gratitude, 
No just remembrance, scruple, or wis-- 

doubt ? 
Benevolence is mild ; nor borrows help, 
Save at worst need, from bold impetuoui 

force, 
Fitliest allied to anger and revenge. 
But Human-kind rejoices in the might 
Of mutability ; and airy hopes, 
Dancing around her, hinder and disturb 
Those meditations of the soul that feed 
The retrospective virtues. Festive sonss 
Break from the maddened nations at me 

sight 
Of sudden overthrow ; and cold neglect 
Is the sure consequence of slow decay. 

Even," said the Wanderer, " as that 

courteous Knight, 
Bound by his vow to labor for redress 
Of all who suffer wrong, and to enact 
By sword and lance the law of gentlenesi , 
(If I may venture of myself to speak, 
Trusting that not uncongruousiy I blend 
Low things with lofty) 1 too shall l^e 

doomed 
To outlive the kindly use and fair esteem 
Of the poor calling which my youth em- 
braced 
With no unworthy prospect. But enough ; 
— Thoughts crowd upon me— and 'twere 

seemlier now 
To stop, and yield our gracious Teacher 

thanks 
For the pathetic records which his voice 
Hath here delivered ; words of heartfelt 

truth, 
Tending to patience wlion affliction strikes 
To hope and love ; to confident repose 
In ( .od ; and reverence lor the dust <>' 

Man." 



690 



THE EXCURSION. 



BOOK EIGHTH. 



THE PARSONAGE. 



ARGUMENT. 



^astor's apoioey and apprehensions that he 
miglit have detained his Auditors too long, 
with the Pastor's invitation to his liouse — 
Solitary disinclined to comply — rallies the 
Wanderer — and playfully draws a comparison 
between his itinerant profession and that of j 
the Knight-errant— which leads to Wander- [ 
er's giving an account of changes in the [ 
Country from the manufacturing spirit — Fa- j 
vorable effects — The other side of the pic- | 
.ure, and chiefly as it has affected the hum- 
bler classes — Wanderer asserts the hollowness l 
of all national grandeur if unsupported by , 
moral worth — Physical science unable to 
support itself — Lamentations ovor an excess 
o-f maiuifacturingindustryamong the humbler , 
Classes of Society— Picture of a Child tm- j 
ployed in a Cotton-mill — Ignorance and deg- 
radation of Children among the agricultural ' 
Population reviewed— Conversation broken j 
off hy a renewed Invitation frcmi tlie Pastor — j 
Path lea 'ing to his H( usj — Its appearance 1 
described— His Daughter— His Wife— His ' 
Son (a P.oy) enters with his Companion — 
Their happy appearance — The Wanderer 
ho-.v affected by the sight of them. 

The pensive Skeptic of the lonely vale 
fo these acknowledgments subscribed his 

own, 
With a sedate compliance, which the Priest 
Failed not to notice, inly pleased, and 

said : — 
" If ye, by whom invited I began 
These narratives ot calm and humble life, 
Be satisfied, 'tis well,— the end is gained ; 
An f, in return for sympathy bestowed 
And patient listenmg, thanks accept from 

me. 
— Life, death, eternity ! momentous themes 
Are they— and might demand a seraph's 

tongue, 
Were they not equal to their own support ; 
And therefore no incompetence ot mine 
Could do them vvrcjng. The universal 

forms 
Of human nature in a spot like this, 
Present themselves at once to all men's 

view : [make 

Ye wished for act and circumstance, tliat 
The individual known and understood ; 
And such as my best judgment could select 
From what the place afforded have been 

given ; 
Though apprehjnsions crossed me that my 

zeal 



To his might well be likened who unlocks 
A cabinet stored with gems and pictures- 
draws 
His treasures forth, soliciting regard 
To this, and this, as worthier than the last^ 
Till the spectator, who awhile was ])leased 
More than the exhibitor himself, becomes 
Weary and faint, and longs to be released. 
— But let us hence ! my dwelling is m 

sight, 
And there — " 

At this the Solitary shrunk, 
With backward will ; but, wanting not ad- 
dress 
That inward motion to disguise, he said 
'J"o his Compatriot, smiling as he spake: 
— " The peaceable remains of this good 

Knight 
Would be disturbed, I fear, with wrathful 
scorn, [lies 

If consciousness could reach him where he 
That one, albeit of these degenerate times, 
Deploring changes past, or dreading change 
Foreseen, had dared to couple, even in 

thought, 
The fine vocation of the sword and lance 
With the gross aims and body-bending toil 
Of a poor brotherhood who walk the earth 
Pitied, and, where they are not known, de- 
spised. 

Yet, by the good Knight's leave, the two 
estates 
Are graced with some resemblance. Errant 

those. 
Exiles and wanderers — and the like are 
these ; [dale, 

Who, with their burthen, traverse hill and 
Carrying relief for nature's simple wants. 
— What though no higher recompense be 

sought 
Than honest maintenance, by irksome toil 
Full oft procured, yet may they claim re- 
spect, 
Among the intelligent, for what this course 
Enables them to be and to perform. 
Their tardy steps give leisure to observe. 
While solitude permits the mind to feel : 
Instructs, and prompts her to supply de» 

. fects 
By the division of her inward self 
For grateful converse: and to these poor men 
Nature (I but repeat your favorite boast) 
Is bountiful — go wheresoe'er they may : . 
Kind nature's various wealth is all theil 
own. 



THE EXCURS/0/^. 



691 



Versed in the characters of men ; and 

bound, 
By ties of daily interest, to maintain 
Conciliatory manners and smooth speech ; 
Such lu-ve been, and still are in their de- 
gree, 
Examples efficacious to refine 
Rude intercourse ; apt agents to expel, 
By importation of unlooked-for arts, 
Barbarian torpor, and blind prejudice ; 
Raising, through just gradation, savage 

life 
To rustic, and the rustic to urbane. 
— Within their moving magazines is lodged 
Power that comes forth to quicken and 

exalt 
Affections seated in the mother's breast. 
And in the lover's fancy ; and to feed 
The sober sympathies of long-tried friends. 
— By these Itinerants, as experienced men. 
Counsel is given ; contention they apjiease 
With gentle language ; in remotest wilds, 
Tears wipe away, and pleasant tidings 

bring ; 
Could the proud quest of chivalry do 
more ? " 

" Happy," rejoined the Wanderer, •' they 

wiio gain 
A panegyric from your generous tongue ! 
But, if to tliese Wayfarers once pertained 
Aught of rumantic interest, it is gone. 
Their purer service, in tliis realm at least. 
Is past forever. — An inventive .Age 
Has wrought, if not with speed of magic, 

yet 
To most strange issues I have lived to 

mark 
A new and unforeseen creation rise 
From out the labors of a peaceful Land 
Wielding her potent enginery to frame 
And to produce, with appetite as keen 
As tliat of war, which rests not night or 

day, [pains 

Industrious to destroy ! With fruitless 
Might one like me now visit many a tract 
Which, in his youth, he trod, and trod 

again, 
A lone pedestrian, with a scanty freight, 
Wished-for, or welcome, wheresoe'er he 

came — 
Among the tenantry of thorpe and vill ; 
Or straggling burgh, of ancient charter 

proud. 
And dignified by battlements and towers 
Of some stern castle, mouldermg on the 

brow 



Of a green hill or bank of rugged stream. 
The foot-path faintly marked, the horse- 

track wild. 
And formidable length of plashy lane, 
(Prized avenues ere others had been shaiped 
Or easier links connecting place with place) 
Have vanished— swallowed up by stately 

roads 
Easy and bold, that penetrate the gloonr 
Of Britain's farthest glens. The Earth has 

lent 
Her waters. Air her breezes ; and the sail 
Of traffic glides with ceaseless intercourse, 
(ilistening along the low and woody dale; 
Or, in its progress, on the lofty side. 
Of some bare hill, with wonder kenned from 

far. 

Meanwhile, at social Industry's com- 
mand. 
How quick, how vast an increase ! From 

the germ 
Of some poor hamlet, rapidly produced 
Here a huge town, contiguous and com- 
pact, [theiC, 
Hiding the face of earth for leagues — and 
Wliere not a habitation stood before, 
.A bodes of men irregularly massed 
Like trees in forests, — spread through spa- 
cious tracts, 
O'er which the smoke of unremitting fires 
Hangs permanent, and plentiful as wreaths 
Of vapor glittering in the morning sun. 
And, whereso'er the traveller turns his 

steps, 
He sees the barren wilderness erased, 
Or disappearing ; triumph that proclaims 
How much the mild Directress of the plough 
Owes to alliance with these new-born arts ! 
— Hence is the wide sea peopled, — hence 

the shores 
Of Britain are resorted to by ships 
I'^reighted from every climate of the world 
With the world's choicest pro(fuce. Hence 

thai sum ^ 

Of keels tliat rest within her crowded ports, 
Or ride at anchor in her sounds and bays ; 
That animating spectacle of sails 
That, through her inland regions, to and fro 
Pass with the respiration of the tide, 
Perpetual, multitudinous I Finally, 
Hence a dread arm of floating power, a voica 
Of thunder daunting those who would ap 

proach 
With hostile purposes the blessed Isle, 
Truth's consecrated residence, the seat 
Impregnable of Liberty and Peace. 



b92 



THE EXCURSION. 



And yet, O happy Pastor of a flock 
Faithfully watched, and, by that loving care 
And Heaven's good providence, preserved 

from taint ! 
With you 1 grieve, when on the darker side 
Of this great change I look ; and there be- 
hold 
Such outrage done to nature as compels 
The indignant power to justify herself ; 
Yea, to avenge her violated rights, 
For England's bane. — When soothing dark- 
ness spreads 
O'er hill and vale," the Wanderer thus ex- 
pressed 
His recollections, " and the punctif&l stars, 
While all things else are gathering to their 

homes, 
Advance, and in the firmament of heaven 
Glitter — but undisturbing, undisturbed ; 
As if their silent company were charged 
With peaceful admonitions for the heart 
Of all-beholding Man, earth's thoughtful 

lord; 
Then, in full many a region, once like this 
The assured domain of calm simplicity 
And pensive quiet, an unnatural light 
Prepared for never-resting Labor's eyes 
Breaks from a many-windowed fabric huge ; 
And at the appointed hour a bell is heard. 
Of harsher import than tiie curfew-knoll 
I'hat spake the Norman Conqueror's stern 

behest — 
A local summons to unceasing toil ! 
Disgorged are now the ministers of day : 
And, as they issue from the illumined pile, 
A fresh bands meets them, at the crowded 

door — 
And in the courts — and where the rumbling 

stream, 
That turns the multitude of dizzy wheels. 
Glares, '.ike a troubled spirit, in its bed 
Among crie rocks below. Men, maidens, 

youths, 
Mother and little children, boys and girls. 
Enter, and each the wonted task resumes 
Within this temple, where is offered up 
To Gain, the master idol of the realm. 
Perpetual sacrifice. Even thus of old 
Oar ancestors, within the still domain 
Of vast cathedral or conventual church. 
Their vigils kept : where tapers day and 

night 
On the dim altar burned continually, 
In token that the House was evermore 
Watching to God. Religious men were they ; 
Nor would their reason, tutored to aspire 
Above thi? tran/^itory world, allow 



That there should pasa a moment of the year 
When in their land the Almighty's service 
ceased. 

Triumph who will In these profaner rites 
Which we, a generation self-extolled. 
As zealously perform ! 1 cannot share 
His proud complacency: — yet do I e.x.ult, 
Casting reserve away, exult to see 
An mtellectual mastery exercised 
O'er the blind elements ; a purpose givea, 
A perseverance fed ; almost a soul 
Imparted — to brute matter. 1 rejoice. 
Measuring the force of those gig.mtic powers 
That, by the thinking mind, have been com- 
pelled 
To serve the will of feeble-bodied Man. 
For with the sense of admiration blends 
The animating hope that time may come 
When, strengthened, yet not dazzled, by 

the might 
Of this dominion over nature gained. 
Men of all lands sliall exercise the same 
In due proportion to their country's need ; 
Learning, though late, that all true glory 

rests, 
All praise, all safety, and all happiness. 
Upon the moral law. Egyptian Thebes, 
Tyre, by the margin of the sounding waves, 
Palmyra, central in the desert, tell ; 
And the Arts died by winch they had been 

raised. 
— Call Archimedes from his buried tomb 
Upon the grave of vanished Syracuse, 
And feelingly the Sage shall make repiirt 
How insecure, how baseless in itself, 
Is the Philosophy whose sway depends 
On mere material instruments ; — how weak 
Those arts, and high inventions, if unprop- 

ped 
By virtue.— He, sighing with pensive erief, 
Amid his calm abstractions, would admit 
That not the slender privilege is theirs 
To save themselves from blank forgetful 
ness ! " 

When from the Wanderer's lips these 
words had fallen, 
I said, " And, did in truth those vaunted 

Arts 
Possess such privilege, how could we escape 
Sadness and keen regret, we who revere. 
And would preserve as things above all price, 
The old domestic morals of the land. 
Her sim]ile manners, and the stable worth 
That dignified and cheered a low estate.'' 
Oh ! where is now the character of peace, 



THE KXCUKSrON. 



693 



Sobriety, and order, and chaste love, 
And honest dealing, and untainted speech, 
And pure good-will, and hospitable cheer ; 
That made the very thought of country-life 
A thought of refuge, for a mind detained 
Reluctantly amid the bustling crowd ■' 
Where now the beauty of the sabbath kept 
With conscientious reverence, as a day 
\j\ the almighty Lawgiver pronounced 
Holy and blest ? and where the winning 

grace 
Of all the lighter ornaments atta^ hed 
To time and season, as the year rolled 

round ? " 

" Fled ! " was the Wanderer's passionate 

response, 
•' Fled utterly ! or only to be traced 
In a few fortunate retreats like this ; 
Which I beiiold with trembling, when I think 
What lamentable change a year — a month — 
May bring; that brook converting as it runs 
Into an instrument of deadly bane 
For those who, yet untempted to forsake 
The simple occupations of their sires. 
Drink the pure water of its innocent stream 
With lip almost as pure. — Domestic bliss 
(Or call it comfort, by a humbler name,) 
How art thou blighted for the poor Man's 

heart I 
Lo i in such neighborhood, from morn to 

eve. 
The habitations empty ! or perchance 
The Mother left alone, — no helping hand 
To rock the cradle of her peevish babe ; 
No daughters round her, busy at the wheel, 
Or in dispatch of each day's little growth 
Of household occupation ; no nice arts 
Of needle-work ; no bustle at the fire. 
Where once the dinner was prepared with 

pride ; 
Nothing to speed the day, or cheer the 

mind ; 
Nothing to praise, to teach, or to command! 

The Father, if perchance he still retam 
His old employments, goes to field or wood. 
No longer led or followed by the Sons ; 
Idlers perchance they were, — but in his 

sight ; 
Breathing fresh air, and treading the green 

earth ; 
Till their short holiday of childhood ceased. 
Ne'er to return ! That birthright now is 

lost. 
Economists will tell you that the State 
Thrives by the forfeiture — unfeeling thought. 



And false as monstrous ! Can the motliei 

thrive 
By the destruction of her innocent sons 
In whom a premature necessity 
Blocks out the forms of nature, preconsumes 
The reason, famishes the heart, shuts up 
The infant Being in itself, and makes 
Its very spring a season of decay ! 
The lot is wretciied, the condition sad. 
Whether a pining discontent survive, 
And thirst for change ; or iuibit hath subdued 
The sold deprcst, dejected — even to love 
Of her close tasks, and long captivity. 

Oh, banish far such wisdom as condemns 
A native Briton to these inward chains. 
Fixed in his soul, so early and so deep ; 
Without his own consent, or knowledge. 

fixed ! 
He is a slave to whom release comes not, 
And cannot come. The boy, where'er he 

turns, 
is still a prisoner, when the wind is up 
Among the clouds, and roars through the 

ancient woods ; 
Or when the sun is shinmg in the east, 
Ouiet and calm. Behold him— in the school 
Of his attainments .? no ; but with the air 
i Fanning his temples under heaven's blue 

arch. 
His raiment, whitened o'er with cotton 

flakes 
Or locks of wool, announces whence he 

comes. 
Creeping his gait and cowennc, his lip pale, 
His respiration quick and audible ; 
And scarcely could you fancy that a rlcam 
Could break from out those languid eyes, or 

a blush 
Mantle upon his cheek. Is this the foim, 
Is that the countenance, and such the jiort^ 
Of no mean Being ? One who should be 

clothed 
With dignity befitting his proud hope; 
Who, in his very childhood, should apjicar 
Sublime from present purity and joy ! 
The limbs increase ; but liberty of mind 
Is gone forever ; and this organic frame. 
So joyful in its motions, is become 
Dull, to the joy of her own motions dead . 
And even the touch, so exquisitely poured 
Through the whole body, with a languid wi| 
Performs its functions ; rarely competent 
To impress a vivid feeling on the mind 
Of what there is delightful in the breeze. 
The gentle visitations of the sun, 
1 Or lapse of liquid clement — by hand, 



694 



TFfE excursfon: 



Or foot, or lip, in summer's warmtli — per- 
ceived. 
— Can hope look forward to a manhood 

raised 
On such foundations ' " 

" Hope is none for him ! " 
The paie Recluse mdignantly exclaimed, 
"And tens of thousands suffer wrong as 

deep. 
Yet be it asked, in justice to our age, 
If there were not, before those arts ap- 
peared, 
These structures rose, commingling old and 

young, 
And unripe sex with sex, for mutual taint ; 
If there were not, thcn^ in our far-famed Isle, 
Multitudes, wIm) from infancy had breathed 
Air unimprisoned, and had lived at large ; 
Vet walked beneath the sun, in human 

shape, 
As abject, as degraded ? At this day, 
Who shall enumerate the crazy huts 
And tottering hovels, whence do issue forth 
A ragged Offspring, with their upright hair 
Crowned like the image of fantastic Fear ; 
Or wearing, (shall we say?) in that white 

growth 
An ill-adjusted turban, for defence 
Or fierceness, wreathed around their sun- 
burnt brows. 
By savage Nature ? Shrivelled are their lips ; 
Naked, and colored like the soil, the feet 
On which they stand ; as if thereby they 

drew 
Some nourishment, as trees do by their roots, 
From eartii, tlie common mother of us all. 
Figure and mien, complexion and attire, 
Are leagued to strike dismay ; but out- 
stretched hand 
And whining voice denote them supplicants 
^For the least boon that pity can bestow. 
'Such on the breast of darksome heaths are 

found ; 
And with their parents occupy the skirts 
Of furze-clad commons ; such are born and 

reared 
At the mine's mouth under impending rocks ; 
Or dwell in chambers of som- natural cave ; 
Or where their ancestors erected huts. 
For the convenience of unlawful gain. 
In forest purlieus ; and the like are bred. 
An England through, where nooks and slips 

of ground 
Purloined, "in times less jealous than our 

own, 
From the green margin of the public way, 
A res.der.ce afford tliem, 'mid the bloom 



And gayety of cultivated fields. 
Such (we will hope the lowest in the scale) 
Do I remember oft-times to have seen 
'Mid Buxton's dreary heights. In earnest 

watch. 
Till the swift vehicle approach, they stand . 
Then, following closely with the cloud a 

dust. 
An uncouth feat exhibit, and are gone 
Heels over head, like tumblers on a st'age. 
— Up from the ground they snatch tne cop 

per coin. 
And, on the freight of merry passengers 
Fixing a steady eye, maintain their speed ; 
And spin — and pant— and overhead again. 
Wild pursuivants ! until their breath is lost^ 
Or bounty tires — and every face, that smik d 
Encouragement, hath ceased to look tha* 

way. 
— But, like the vagrants of the gypsy tribe. 
These, bred to little pleasure in themselves. 
Are profitless to others. 

Turn we then 
To Britons born and bred within the pale 
Of civil polity, and early trained 
To earn, by wholesome labor in the field. 
The brea'd they eat. A sample should I 

give 
Of what this stock hath long produced to 

enrich 
The tender age of life, ye would exclaim, 
' Is this the whistling plough-boy, whose 

shrill notes 
Impart new gladness to the morning air ! ' 
Forgive me if I venture to suspect 
That many, sweet to hear of in soft verse, 
Are of no finer frame. Stiff are his joints; 
Beneath a cumbrous frock, that to tl>« 

knees 
Invests the thriving churl, his legs appear 
Fellows to those that lustily upheld 
The wooden stools for everlasting use. 
Whereon our fathers sate. And mark h'S 

brow ! 
Under whose shaggy canojw are set 
Two eyes — not dim, but of a healthy stare- 
Wide, sluggish, blank, and ignorant, anc 

atrange — 
Proclaiming boldly that they never drew 
A look or motion of intelligence 
From infant-conning of the Christ-cross 

row. 
Or puzzling through a primer, line by line, 
Till perfect mastery crown the pains at last 
— What kindly warmth from touch of foa 

t?'ing hand, 
What penetrating power of sun or breeze. 



THE excursion: 



&9S 



Shall e'er dissolve the crust wliertin liis 

soul 
Sleeps, like a caterpillar sheathed in ice ? 
Tliis torpor is no pitiable work 
Of modern ingenuity ; no town 
Nor crowded city can be taxed with aught 
Of sottish vice or desperate breach of law 
To which (and who can tell where or how 

soon ?) 
He may be ro'ised. Tins Boy the fields 

produce ■. 
His spade and hoe, mattock and glittering 

scythe, 
The carter's whip that on his shoulder rests 
In air high-towenng, with a boorish pomp. 
The sceptre ot his sway; iiis country's 

name. 
Her equal rights, her churches and her 

schools — - 
What have they done for him ? And, let me 

ask. 
For tens ot thousands uninformed as Iie ? 
In brief, what liberty ot vnnd is here ? '' 

This ardent sally pleased the mild good 

Man, 
To whom the appeal couched m its closing 

words 
Was pointedly addressed ; and to the 

thoughts 
That, in asseni or opposition, rose 
Witliin his mind, he seemed prepared to 

give 
Prompt utterance but the Vicar interposed 
With invitation u.^eiitly renewed. ♦ 
— We follcw&l, taking, as he led, a path 
Along a h('dg(> jf nollies, dark and tail. 
Whose flc^il boughs, low bending with a 

weight 
01 leafy spray, concealed the stems and 

roots 
Tliat gave them nourishment. When frosty 

winds 
Howl from the nortli, what kindly warmth, 

methought, 
'■s licre ■- how grateful this impervious 

screen ! 
-Not shaped by simple wearing of' the 

toot 
On rural business passing to and fro 
Was the commodious walk : a careful hand 
Had marked the /ine, and strewn its surface 

o'er 
Witli pure cerulean gravel, froiri the heights 
Fetclicd by a neigliboring brook.— Across 

the vale 
The stately fence acrompanied our steps ; 



And thus the pathway, by perennial green 
Guarded and graced, seemed fashioned to 

unite. 
As by a beautiful yet solemn chain. 
The Pastor's mansion with the house of 

prayer. 

Like image of solemnity, conjoined 
With feminine allurement soft and fair. 
The mansion's self displayed ; — a reverend 

pile 
With bold projections and recesses deep , 
Shadowy, yet gay and lightsome as it 

stood 
Fronting the noontide sun. We paused to 

admire 
The pillared porch, elaborately embossed ; 
The low wide windows with their muUions 

old; 
Tlie cornice, richly fretted, of gray stone ; 
And that smooth slope from which the 

dwelling rose, 
By bods and banks Arcadian of gay flowers 
.\nd flowering shrubs, protected and adorn- 
ed : [iiig 
Profusion bright ! and every flower assum 
A more than natural vividness of hue, 
From unaffected contrast with the gloom 
Of sober cypress, and the darker foil 
Of yew, in which survived some traces, 

here 
Not unbecoming, of grotesque device 
And uncouth fancy. From behind the 

roof 
Rose the slim ash and massy sycamf>re, 
r>lcnding their divers foliage witli tlie green 
Of ivy, flourishing and thick, tliat clasped 
The huge round chimnevs, harbor of de- 
light 
For wren and redbreast, — where they sit 

and sing 
Their slender ditties when the trees are 

bare. 
Nor must J leave untouched (the picture 

else 
Were incomplete) a relic of old f.mes 
Happily snared, a little Gothic niche 
Of nicest workmanship ; that once had 

held 
The sculptured image of some patron-saint, 
Or of the blessed Virgin, looking down 
On all who entered those religious doors. 

But lo! where from the rocky garderw 
mount 
Crowned by its antique summer-house—" 
descends. 



696 



THE EXCURSION. 



Light as the silver fawn, a radiant Girl ; 
For she hath recognized her honored friend, 
The Wanderer ever welcome. A prompt 

kiss 
The gladsome Child bestows at his request ; 
And, up the Howery lawn as we advance, 
Hangs on the old Man with a happy look, 
And with a pretty restless hand of love. 
—We enter — by the Lady of the place 
Cordially greeted. Graceful was her port : 
A lofty stature undepressed by time. 
Whose visitation had not wholly spared 
The finer lineaments of form and face ; 
To that complexion brought wliich prudence 

trusts in 
And wisdom loves.— But when a stately 

ship 
Sails in smooth weather by the placid coast 
On homeward voyage, what-^f wind and 

wave, 
And hardship undergone in various climes, 
Have caused her to abate the virgin pride, 
And that full trim ot inexperienced hope 
With which she left her haven— not for 

this, 
Should the sun strike her, and the impartial 

breeze 
Play on her streamers, fails she to assume 
Brightness and touching beauty of her own, 
That charm all eyes, bo bright, so lair ap- 
peared 
This goodly Matron, shining in the beams 
Of unexpected pleasure.— Soon the board 
Was spread, and we partook a plain repast 

Here, resting in cool shelter, we beguiled 
The mid-day hours with desultory talk ; 
From trivial themes to general argument 
Passing, as accident or fancy led, 
Or courtesy prescribed, While question 

rose 
And answer flowed, the fetters of reserve 
Dropping from every mind, the Solitary 
Resumed the manners of Ins happier days ; 
And in the various conversation bore 
A willing, nay, at times, a forward part ; 
Vet with tlie grace of one who in the world 
Had learned the art of pleasing, and had 

now 
Occasion given him to display his skill 
Upon the stedfast 'vantage-ground of truth. 
He gazed, with admiration unsuppiessed, 
Upon the landscape of the sun-bright vale, 
Seen, from the shady room in which we 

sate, 
In softened perspective ; and more than 

once 



Praised the consummate harmony serene 

Of gravity and elegance, diffused 
Around the mansion and its whole domain ) 
Not, doubtless, without help of female taste 
And female care. — " A blessed lot is 

yours ! " 
The words escaped his lips, with a tender ■ 

sigh A 

Breathed over them ; hut suddenly the 

door 
Flew open, and a pair of lusty Boys 
Appeared, confusion checking their delight. 
— Not brothers they in feature or attire. 
But fond companions, so I guessed, in 

field, 
And by the river's marg.i — whence they 

come, 
Keen anglers with unusual spoil elated. 
One bears a willow-pannier on his back, 
The boy of plainer garb, whose blush sur- 
vives 
More deeply tinged. Twin might the 

other be 
To that fair girl who horn the garden 

mount 
Bounded ; — triumphant entry this lor him ! 
Between his hands he holds a smooth biue 

stone, 
On whose capacious surface see outspread 
Large store of gleaming crimson-spotted 
^trouts ; [grees 

Ranged side by side, and lessening by de- 
Up to the dwarf that tops the pinnacle 
Upon the board he lays the sky-blue stone 
With its rich freight j their number he pro- 
claims ; 
Tells from what pool the noblest li.ad beeB 

dragged ; 
And where the very monarch of the brook, 
After long struggle, had escaped at last — 
Stealing alternately at them and us 
{ As doth his comrade too) a look of pride „ 
And, verily, the silent creatures made 
A splendid sight, together thus exposed , 
Dead— but iiot sullied or deformed b* 

death. 
That seemed to pity what he could no' 

spare. 

But O, the animation in tiie mien 
Of those two boys ! yea in the very words 
With winch the young narrator was ir> 

spired, 
When, as our questions led, he told at 

large 
Of tlui today's prowess » Him tnighi I com' 

pure. 



THE EXCURSION. 



697 



His looks, tones, gestures, eager eloquence, 
To a bold brook that splits for better 

speed, [way 

And, at the self-same moment, works its 
Through many channels, ever and anon 
Parted and re-united : his compeer 
To the still lake, whose stillness is to sight 
As beautiful — as grateful to the mind. 
-—But to what object shall the lovely Girl 
Be likened? She whose countenance and 

air 
Unite the graceful qualities of both. 
Even as she shares the pride and joy of both. 

My gray-haired Friend was moved ; his 

vivid eye [knew. 

Glistened with tenderness; his mind, I 



Was full ; and had, I doubted not, returned, 
Upon this impulse, to the theme — erewhile 
Abruptly broken off. The ruddy boys 
Withdrew, on summons, to their well-earned 

meal ; 
And He — to whom all tongues resigned 

their rights 
With willingness, to whom the general ear 
Listened with readier patience than to 

strain 
Of music, lute or harp, a long delight 
That ceased not when his voice had ceased — 

as One 
Who from truth's central point serenely 

views 
The compass of his argument— began 
Mildly, and with a clear and steady tons. 



BOOK NINTH. 



DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, 
AND AN EVENING /ISIT TO 
THE LAKE. 

ARGUMENT. 

Wanderer asserts that an active principle per- 
vades the Universe, its noblest seat the 
human soul — How lively this principle is in 
Cliildhond — Hence tlie deligiit in old Age of 
looking back upon Childhood— The dignity, 
powers, and privileges of Age asserted — 
These not to be looked for generally but under 
a just government — Right of a human Crea- 
ture to be exemi")t from being considered as 
a mere Instrument —The condition of multi- 
tudes deplored — Former conversation re- 
cilrred to, and the Wanderer's opinions set 
in a clearer light — Truth placed within reach 
of the humblest— Equality— Happy state of 
the iwo Boys again adverted to— Earnest 
wish expressed for a System of National 
K:iucation established universally by Gov- 
ernment—Glorious effects of this foretold— 
Walk to the Lake — Grand spectacle from 
the side of a hill — .Address of Priest to the 
Supreme Being — in the course of which he 
contrasts with a>'Cient Barbarism the pres- 
ent appearance of the scene before him — 
The change ascribed to Christianity — Apos- 
trophe to his flock, living and dead — Grati- 
tude to ihe Almighty— Return over the Lake 
— Paitmg with the Solitary — Undc- what 
circumstances. 



" To every Form of being is assigned," 
Thus calmly spake the venerable Sage, 
" An active principle : — howe'er removed 
From sense and observation, it subsists 
In all things, in all natures ; in the stars 
Of azure heaven, the unenduring clouds, 
In flower and tree, in every pebly stone 
That paves the brooks, the stationary rocks, 
The moving waters, and the invisible air 
Whate'er exists hath properties that spread 
Beyond itself, communicating good, / 

A simple blessing, or with evil mi.xed; 
Spirit that knows no insulated spot 
No chasm, no solitude ; from link to link 
It circulates, the Soul of all the worlds. 
This is the freedom of the universe; 
Unfolded still the more, more visible, 
The more we know ; and yet is reverenced 

least. 
And least respected in the human Mind, 
Its most apparent home. The food )/ 

hope 
Is meditated action ; robbed of this 
Her whole support, she languishes and diet. 
W'e perish also ; for we live by hope 
And by desire ; we see by the glad light 
.•\nd breathe the sweet air of futurity ; 
And so we live, or else we have no life. 
To-morrow — nay perchance this very hour 
(For every moment hath its own to-moT 

row !) 



698 



THE EXCURSION, 



Those blooming Boys, whose hearts are al- 
most sick 
With present triumph, will be sure to find 
A field before them freshened with tlie dew 
Of other expectations ; — m whicii course 
Their happy year spins round. The youth 

obeys 
A like glad impulse ; and so moves the 

man 
'Mid all his apprehensions, cares, and 

fears, — 
Or so he ought to move. Ah ! why in age 
Do we revert so fondly to the walks 
Of childhood — but that there the Soul dis- 
cerns 
The dear memorial footsteps unimpaired 
Of her own native vigor ; thence can hear 
Reverberations; and a choral song, 
Commingling with the incense that ascenls 
Undaunted, toward the imperishable heav- 
ens, 
From her own lowly altar ? 

Do not think 
That good and wise ever will be allowed, 
Though strength decay, to breathe in such 

estate 
As shall divide them wholly from the stir 
Of hopeful nature. Rightly is it said 
That Man descends into the Vale of 

years ; 
Yet have I thought that we might also 

speak. 
And not presumptuously, I trust, of Age, 
As of a final Eminence ; though bare 
In aspect and forbidding, yet a point 
On which 'tis not impossible to sit 
In awful sovereignty ; a place of power, 
A throne, that may be likened unto his 
Who, in some placid day of summer, looks 
Down from a mountain-top.— say one of 

those 
High peaks that bound the vale where now 

we are. 
Faint, and diminished to the gazing eye, 
Forest and field, and hill and dale appear. 
With all the shapes over their surface 

spread : 
But, while the gross and viable frame of 

things 
Relinquishes its hold upon the sense. 
Yea almost on the Mind herself, and seems 
All unsubstantialized, — how loud the voice 
Of waters, with invigorated peal 
From the full river in the vale below, 
Ascending ! For on that superior height 
Who sits is disencumbered from the press 
Qf near obstructions, and is privileged 



To breathe in solitude, above the host 
Of ever-humming insects, 'mid thin air 
That suits not them. The murmur of the 

leaves 
Many and idle, visits not his ear : 
This he is freed from, and from thousanc 

notes 
(Not less unceasing, not less vain thar 

these). 
By which the finer passages of sense 
Are occupied ; and the Soul, that would u 

clin 
To listen, is prevented or deterred. • 

And may it not be hoped, that, placed by 

age 
In like removal, tranquil though severe, 
We are not sf) removed for utter loss ; 
But for some favor, suited to our need.'' 
What more than that the severing shouid 

confer 
Fresh power to commune with the invisible 

world, 
And hear the mighty stream of tendency 
Uttering, for elevation of our thought, 
A clear sonorous voice, inaudible 
To the vast multitude ; whose doom it is 
To run the giddy round of vain delight, 
Or fret and labor on the Plain below. 

But, if to such sublime ascent the hopes 
Of Man may rise, as to a welcome close 
And termination of his mortal course ; 
Them only can such hope inspire whose 

minds 
Have not been starved by absolute neglect ; 
Nor bodies crushed bv unremitting toil ; 
To whom kind Nature, therefore, may af- 
ford 
Proof of the sacred love she bears for all ; 
Whose birthright Reason, therefore, may 

ensure. 
For me, consulting what I feel within 
In times when most existence with herseJ; 
Is satisfied, I cannot but believe 
That, far as kindly Nature hath free scope 
And Reason's sway predominates ; even Si 

far, 
Country, society, and time itself 
That saps the individual's bodily frame 
And lays the generations low in dust, 
Do, by the almighty Ruler's grace, partake 
Of one maternal spirit, bringing forth 
And cherishing with ever-constant love 
That tires not, nor betrays. Our life is 

tiirn<^d 
Out of her course, wherever man is made , 



THE EXCURSrOI^. 



699 



An oftering. or a sacrifice, a tool 
Oi implement, " passive thing employed 
\s a brute mean, with lit acknowledgment 
Of common righ^ r interest in the end, 
Used or abused, as selfishness may pn^mpt. 
5 y, what can follow lor a rational soul 
Perverted thus, but weakness in all good. 
And .treng h in -^vil ? Hence an after-call 
For chastisement, and custody, and bonds, 
And oft-times Death, avenger of the past. 
And the sole guardian m whose hands we 

dare 
Entrust the future. — Not for these sad is- 
sues 
U'as Man created ; but to obey the law 
Ot life, and hope, and action. And 'tis 

known 
That when we stand upon our native soil, 
Unelbowed by such objects as oppress 
Our active powers, those powers themselves 

become 
Strong to subvert our noxious qualities ; 
They sweep distemper from the busy day. 
And make the chalice of the big round year 
Run o'er with gladness ; whence the Being 

moves 
In beauty through the world ; and all who 

see 
Bless him, rejoicing in his neighborhood." 

"Then," said the Solitary, "by what 
force 
Of language shall a feeling heart express 
Her sorrow for that multitude in whom 
We look for health from seeds that have 

been sown 
In sickness, and for increase ifi « power 
That works but bj extinction t On them- 
selves 
They cannot lean, nor turn to their own 

hearts 
To kno\» vhat they must do; their wis- 
dom is 
To look into the eyes of others, thence 
To be instructed what they must avoid : 
Or rather, let us say, how least observed. 
How with most quiet and most silent death, 
With the least taint and injury to the air 
Th3 oppressor breathes, their human form 

d V no, 
And their immortal soul, may waste away.'' 

The Sage rejoined, " I thank you — you 
have spared 
My voice tlie utteranc" of a keen regret, 
A wide compassion which with you I sha-r^. 
When, heretofore, i placed before your sigl.l 



A Little-one, subjected to the arts 

Of modern ingenuity, and made 

The senseless member of a vast machine 

Serving as f^oth a spindle or a wheel ; 

Think not that pitying h:m, 1 could for 

get 
The rustic Boy, who walk.<^ the fields, un 

taught ; 
The slave of ignorance, and oft of want, 
And miserable hunger. Much, too much, 
Of this unhappy lot, in early youth 
We both have witnessed, lot which I myself 
Shared, though in mild and merciful degree : 
Yet was the mind to hindrances exposed, 
Tlirough which I struggled, not without 

ch stress 
And sometimes injury, like a lamb en- 

thr.Jled 
'Mid tl.orns and brambles ; or a bird tiiat 

breaks 
Through a strong net, and mounts upon the 

wind, 
Though with her plumes impaired. If they, 

whose souls 
Should open while they range the richer 

fields 
Of merry England, are obstructed less 
By indigence, their ignorance is not less. 
Nor less to be deplored. For who can 

doubt 
That tens of thousands at this day exist 
Such as the boy you painted, lineal heirs 
Of those who once were vassals of her soil. 
Following its fonunes like the beasts 01 

trees 
Which it sustained. But no one takes de- 
light 
In this oppression ; none are proud of it ; 
It bears no sounding name, nor ever bore ; 
A standing grievance, an indigenous vice 
Of every country under heaven. My 

thoughts 
Were turned to evils that arc new and 

chosen, 
A bondage lurking under shape of good,— 
Arts, in themselves beneficent and kind, 
But all too fondly followed and too far ;- 
To victims, which the merciful can see 
Nor think that they are victims — turned * 

wrongs. 
By women, who have children of their own, 
Beheld without compassion, yea with 

praise I 
I spake of mischief by the wise d ffiised 
With gladness, thinking that tlie more •' 

=]ircn '■ ; 
The hcuiiiuwr, the sccirer, we become-, 



700 



THE excursion: 



Delusion which a moment may destroy ; 

Lastly, 1 mourned for those whom I had 
seen 

Corrupted and cast down, o» favored 
ground. 

Where circumstances and nature had com- 
bined 

To shelter innocence, and cherish love ; 

Who, but for tliis intrusion, would have 
lived, 

Possessed of health, and strength, and peace 
of mind ; 

Thus would have lived, or never liave been 
born. 

Alas ! what differs more than man from 

man ! 
And whence that difference ? whence but 

from himself ? 
For see the universal Race endowed 
With the same upright form ! — The sun is 

fixed. 
And the infinite magnificence of heaven 
Fixed, witliin reach of every human eye; 
The sleepless ocean murmurs for all ears : 
The vernal field infuses fresh delight 
Into all hearts. Throughout the v/orld of 

sense, 
Even as an object is sublime or fair, 
That object is laid open to the view 
Without reserve or veil : and as a power 
Is salutary, or an influence sweet, 
Are each and all enabled to perceive 
That power, that influence, by impartial 

law. 
Gifts nobler are vouchsafed alike to all ; 
Reason, and, with that reason, smiles and 

tears ; 
hnagination, freedom in the will ; 
Conscience to guide and check ; and death 

to be 
Foretasted, immortality conceived 
By all, — a blissful immortality. 
To them whose holiness on earth shall make 
The Spirit capable of heaven, assured. 
Strange, then, nor less than monstrous, 

might be deemed 
The failure, if the Almighty, to tliis point 
Liberal and undistuiguishing, should hide 
The excellence of moral qualities 
From common understanding ; leaving truth 
And virtue, difficult, abstruse, and dark , 
Hard to oe won, and only by a few ; 
Strange, should He deal herein with nice 

respects, 
And frustrate all the rest ! Believe it not : 
The primal duties shine aloft — like stars j 



The charities that soothe, and heal, and 

bless, 
Are scattered at the feet of Man- like 

fiowers. 
The generous inclination, the just rule, 
Kind wishes, and good actions, and pur« 

thoughts — 
No mystery is here I Here is no boon 
For high — yet not for low ; for proudly 

graced — 
Yet not for meek of heart. The smoke 

ascends 
To heaven as lightly from the cottage-hearth 
As from the haughtiest palace. He, whose 

soul 
Ponders this true equality, may walk 
The fields of earth with gratitude and hope; 
Vet, in that meditation, will he find 
Motive to sadder grief, as we have found ; 
Lamenting ancient virtues overthrown, 
And for tb.c injustice grieving, that hath 

made 
So wide a difference between man and man. 

Then let us rather fix our gladdened 

thouglits 
Upon the brighter scene. How blest that 

pair 
Of blooming Boys (whom we beheld even 

now) 
Blest in their several and their common lot! 
A few short hours of each returning day 
The thriving prisoners of their village- 
school : 
And thence let loose, to seek their pleasant 

homes 
Or range the grassy lawn in vacancy ; 
To breathe and to be happy, run and shout 
Idle, — but no delay, no harm, no loss : 
For every genial power of heaven and 

earth. 
Through all the '■easons of the changeful 

year. 
Obsequiously doth tike upon herself 
To labor for them ; !:ringing each in turn 
The tribute of enjoyment, knowledge, 

health, 
Beauty, or strength ! Such privilege is 

theirs, 
Granted alike in the outset of their course 
To both ; and, if that partnership must 

cease, 
I grieve not," to the Pastor here he turned, 
" Much as I glory in that child of yours, 
Repine not for liis cottage-comrade, whonr 
Belike no higher destiny awaits 
Than the old hereditary wish fulfilled ; 



THE EXCURSION. 



701 



The wish for liberty to live — content 

W ith what Heaven grants, and die — in peace 

of mind 
Within the bosom of his native vale. 
At least, whatever fate the noon of life 
Reserves for either, sure it is that both 
Have been permitted to enjoy the dawn; 
Whether regarded as a jocund time, 
That in itself may terminate, or lead 
In course of nature to a sober eve. 
Both have been fairly dealt witli ; looking 

back 
They will allow that justice has in them 
Been shown, alike to body and to mind." 

He paused, as if revolving in his soul 
Some weighty matter ; then, with fervent 

voice 
And an impassioned majesty, exclaimed — 

"O for the coming of that glorious time 
When, prizing knowledge as her noblest 

wealth 
And best protection, this imperial Realm, 
While she exacts allegiance, shall admit 
An obligation, on her part, to teach 
'J'hem who are born to serve her and obey ; 
Binding herself by statute to secure 
For all the children whom her soil main- 
tains 
The rudiments of letters, and inform 
The mind with moral and religious truth, 
Both understood and practised, — so that 

none, 
However destitute, be left to droop 
By timely ailture unsustained ; or run 
Into a wild disordei ; or be forced 
To drudge through a weary life without the 

help 
Of intellectual implements and tools ; 
A savage horde among the civilized, 
A servile band among the lordly free ! 
This sacred riglit the lisping babe pro- 
claims 
To be inherent in him, by Heaven's will, 
For the protection of his innocence ; 
And the rude boy — who, havmg overpast 
I"he sinless age, by conscience is enrolled, 
Vet mutinously knits his angry brow. 
And lifts his wilful hand on mischief bent. 
Or turns the godlike faculty of speech 
To impious use — by process mdirect 
Declares his due, while he makes known his 

need. 
— Thi^i sacred right is fruitlessly announced. 
This universal plea in vain addressed. 
To eves and ears of parents who them- 
selves 



Did, in the time of their necessity, 

Urge it in vain ; and, therefore, like a 

prayer 
That from the humblest floor ascends to 

heaven. 
It mounts to reach the State's parental ear : 
Who, if indeed she owns a mother's heart, 
And be not most unfeelingly devoid 
or gratitude, to Providence, will grant 
The unquestionable good — which England, 

safe 
From interference of external force, 
May grant at leisure; without risk incurred 
That what in wisdom for herself she doth, 
Others shall e'er be able to undo. 

Look ! and behold, from Calpe's sunburnt 
cliffs 
To the flat margin of the Baltic sea. 
Long-reverenced titles cast away as weeds ; 
Laws overturned ; and territory split, 
Like fields of ice rent by the polar w,nd, 
And forced to join in less obnoxious shapes 
Which, ere they gain consistence, by a gust 
Of the same breath are shattered and de- 
stroyed. 
Meantime the sovereignty of these fair 

Isles 
Remains entire and indivisible : 
And, if that ignorance were removed, which 

breeds 
Within the compass of their several shores 
Dark discontent, or loud commotion, each 
Might still preserve the beautiful repose 
Of heavenly bodies shining in their spheres. 
— The discipline of slavery is unknown 
Among us, — hence the more do we require 
The discipline of virtue ; order else 
Cannot subsist, nor conHcience, nor peace- 
Thus duties rising out of good possest 
And prudent caution needful to avert 
Impending evil, equally require 
That the whole people should be taught and 

trained. 
So shall licentiousness and black resolve 
iJe rooted out, and virtuous habits take 
Their place; and genuine piety descend, 
Like an inheritance, from age to age. 

With such foundations laid, avaunt the 

fear 
Of numbers crowded on their native soil, 
To the prevention of all healthful growth 
Tiirough mutual injury! Rather in the law 
Of increase and tiie mandate frorii above 
Rejoice ! — and ye have special cause ftw 

joy. 



702 



THE EXCURSION. 



—For, as the element of air affords 
An aasy passage to the industrious bees 
Fraught with their burthens ; and a way as 

smooth 
For those ordained to take their sounding 

flight 
From the thronged hive, and settle where 

they list 
fn fresh abodes — their labor to renew ; 
So the wide w^aters, open to the power, 
The will, the instincts, and appointed 

needs 
Of Britain, do invite her to cast off 
Her swarms, and in succession send them 

forth ; 
Bound to establish new communities 
On every shore whose aspect favors hope 
Or bold adventure ; promising to skill 
And perseverence their deserved reward. 

Yes," he continued, kindling as he spake, 
" Change wide, and deep, and silently per- 
formed, 
This Land shall witness ; and as days roll 

on, 
Earth's universal frame shall feel tlie 

effect ; 
Even till the smallest habitable rock, 
Beaten by lonely billows, hear the songs 
Of humanized society ; and bloom 
With civil arts, that shall breathe forth 

their fragrance, 
A grateful tribute to all-rulmg Heaven. 
From culture, unexclusively bestowed 
On Albion's noble Race in freedom born, 
Expect these mighty issues ; from the pains 
And faithful care of unambitious schools 
Instructing simple ciiildhood's ready ear: 
Thence look for these magnificent results! 
---Vast the circumference of hope — and ye 
\re at its centre, British Lawgivers ; 
A.h ! sleep not there in shame ! Shall Wis- 
dom's voice 
From out the bosom of these troubled 

times 
Repeat the dictates of her calmer mind, 
And shall the venerable halls ye fill 
Refuse to echo the sublime decree? 
Trust not to partial care a general good ; 
Transfer not to futurity a work 
Of urgent need. — Your Country must conv 

plete 
Her glorious destiny. I'egin even now, 
Now, when oppression, like the Egyptian 

plague 
tV darkness stretched o'er guilty Europe. 
makes 



The brightness more conspicuous that in« 

vests 
The happy Island where ye think and act; 
Now, when destruction is a prime pursuit, 
Show to the wretched nations for what 

end 
The powers of civil polity were given," 

Abruptly here, but with a graceful air. 
The Sage broke off. No sooner had lie 

ceased 
Than, looking forth, the gentle lady said, 
" Behold the shades of afternoon have 

fallen 
Upon this flowery slope ; and see — be- 
yond — 
The silvery lake is streaked with placid 

blue , 
As if preparing for the peace of evening. 
How temptingly the landscape shines ! The 

air 
Breathes invitation : easy is the walk 
To the lake's margin, where a boat lies 

moored 
Under a sheltering tree." — Upon tiiis hint 
We rose together \ all were pleased , but 

most 
The beauteous girl, whose cheek was 

flushed with joy. 
Light as a sunbeam glides along the hills 
She vanished — eager to impart the scheme 
To her loved brother and his shy compeer 
— Now was there bustle in (he Vicar's 

house 
And earnest preparation. — Forth we went 
And down the vale along the streamlet's 

edge 
Pursued our way, a broken company, 
Mute or conversing, single or in pairs. 
Thus having reached a bridge, that over 

arched 
The hasty rivulet where it lay becalmed 
In a deep pool, by happy chance we saw 
A two-fold image ; on a grassy bank 
A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood 
Another and the same ! Most beautiful. 
On the green turf, with his imperial front 
Shaggy and bold, and wreathed horns su 

perb. 
The breathing creature stood ; as beautiful, 
Beneath him, showed his shadowy counter- 
part. 
Each had his glowing mountains, each his 

sky, 

And each seemed centre of iiis own fair 
world . 
I Anlijiodcs unconscious of each othcTj 



TTTE EXCURSION. 



703 



Yet, in partition, with their several spheres, 
Blended, in perfect stillness, to our sight ! 

" Ah ! what a pity were it to disperse, 
Or to disturb, so fair a spectacle, 
And yet a breath can do it ! " 

These few words 
The Lady whispered, while we stood and 

gazed 
Gathered together, all in still delight. 
Not without awe. Thence passing on, she 

said 
In like low voice to my particular ear, 
'• 1 love to hear that eloquent old Man 
Pour forth his meditations, and descant 
On human life from infancy to age. 
How pure his spirit ! in what vivid hues 
His mind gives back the various forms of 

things, 
Caught in their fairest, happiest, attitude ! 
While he is speaking, I have power to see 
Even as he sees ; but when his voice hath 

ceased, 
Then, with a sigh, sometimes I feel, as now, 
That combinations so serene and bright 
Cannot be lasting in a world like ours. 
Whose higliest beauty, beautiful as it is, 
Like that reflected in yon quiet pool, 
Seems but a fleeting sun-beam's gift, whose 

peace 
The sufferance only of a breath of air ! " 

More had she said — but sportive shouts 
were heard 
Sent from the jocund hearts of those two 

Boys, 
Who, bearing. each a basket on his arm, 
Down the green field came tripping after 

us. 
With caution we embarked ; and now the 

pair 
For prouder service were addrest; but each, 
Wishful to leave an opening for my choice, 
Dropped the light oar his eager hand had 

seized. 
Tlianks given for that becoming courtesy, 
Their place I took — and for a grateful office 
Pregnant with recollections of the time 
When, on thy bosom, spacious Winder- 
mere ! 
A Youth, I practised this delightful art; 
Tossed on the waves alone, or 'mid a crew 
Of joyous comrades. Soon as .the reedy 

marge 
Was cleared, I dipped, with arms accordant, 

oars 
Free from obstruction : and the boat ad- 
vanced 



Through crystal water, smoothly as a 

hawk. 
That, disentangled from the shady boughs 
Of some thick wood, her . place of covert, 

cleaves 
With correspondent wings the abyss of air, 
— " Observe," the Vicar said, " yon rocky 

isle 
With birch-trees fringed; my hand shall 

guide the helm, 
While thitherward we shape our course ; or 

while 
We seek that other, on the western shore ; 
Where the bare columns of those lofty firs, 
Supporting gracefully a massive dome 
Of sombre foliage, seem to imitate 
A Grecian temple rismg from the Deep." 

" Turn where we may," said I, " wc can. 

not err 
In this delicious region."— Cultured slopes. 
Wild tracts of forest-ground, and scattered 

groves. 
And mountains bare, or clothed with an- 
cient woods. 
Surrounded us ; and, as we held our way 
Along the level of the glassy flood, 
They ceased not to surround us ; change of 

place. 
From kindred features diversely combined. 
Producing change of beauty ever new. 
—Ah ! that such beauty, varying m th« 

light 
Of living nature, cannot be portrayed 
By words, nor by the pencil's silent skill ; 
But is the property of him alone 
Vs'ho hath beheld it, noted it with care, 
And in his mind recorded it with love ! 
Suffice it, therefore, if the rural Muse 
Vouchsafe sweet influence, while her Poet 

speaks 
Of trivial occupations well devised, 
And unsought pleasures springing up by 

chance ; 
And if some friendly Genius had ordained 
That, as the day thus far had been enriched 
By acquisition of sincere delight, 
The same should be continued to its close. 

One spirit animating old and young 
A gypsy- fire we kindled on the shore 
Of the fair Isle vvitli birch-trees fringed — 

and tliere, 
Merrily seated in a ring, partook 
A choice repast — served by our young coiu- 

panions 
With rival earnestness and kindred glee. 



704 



THE EXCURSION. 



Launched from our hands the smooth stone 

skimmed tlie lake ; 
With shouts we raised the echoes ; — stiller 

sounds 
The lovely Girl supplied — a simple song, 
Whose low tones reached not to the distant 

rocks 
To be repeated thence, but gently sank 
Into our hearts ; and charmed the peaceful 

flood. 
Rapaciously we gathered flowery spoils 
From land and water ; lilies of each hue — 
Golden and white, that float upon the 

waves, 
And court the wind ; and leaves of that shy 

plant, 
(Her flowers were shed) the lily of the 

vale, 
That loves the ground, and from the sun 

withholds 
Her pensive beauty; from the breeze her 

sweets. 

Such product, and such pastime, did the 
place 
And season yiekl ; but, as we re-embarked, 
Leaving, in quest of other scenes, the shore 
Of that wild spot, the Solitary said 
In a low voice, yet careless who might hear, 
" The fire, that burned so brightly to our 

wish. 
Where is it now ? — Deserted on t!ie beach — 
Dying, or dead ! Nor shall the fanning 

breeze 
Reviv.e its ashes. What care we for this, 
Whose ends are gained? Behold an em- 
blem here 
Of one day's pleasure, and all mortal joys ! 
And, in this unpremeditated slight 
Orthat which is no longer needed, see 
The common course of human gratitude ! '' 

This plaintive note disturbed not the re- 
pose 
Of the still evening. Right across the lake 
Our pinnace moves ; then, coasting creek 

and bay, 
Glades we behold, and into thickets peep. 
Where couch the spotted deer ; or raise our 

eyes 
To shaggy steeps on which the careless 

goat 
Browsed by the side of dashing waterfalls ; 
And thus the bark, meandering with the 

shore. 
Pursued her voyage, till a natural pier 
Of jutting rock invited us to land. 



Alert to follow as the Pastor ]ed, 
We clomb a green hill's i>".de ; and, as wa 

clomb. 
The Valley, opening out her bosom, gave 
Fair prospect, intercepted less and less, 
O'er the flat meadows and indented coast 
Of the smooth lake, in compass seen : — far 

off, 
And yet conspicuous, stood the old Church- 
tower, 
In majesty presiding ovei- fields 
And habitations seemingly preserved 
From all intrusion of the restless world 
By rocks impassable and mountains huge. 

Soft heath this elevated spot supplied, 
And choice of moss-clad stones, whereon we 

couched 
Or sate reclined ; admiring quietly 
The general aspect of the scene ; but each 
Not seldom over anxious to make known 
His own discoveries ; or to favorite points 
Directing notice, merely from a wish 
To impart a joy, imperfect while unshared. 
That rapturous moment never shall I for- 
get 
When these particular interests were effaced 
From every mind ! — Already had the sun, 
Sinking with less than ordinary state, 
Attained his western bound; but rays of 

light- 
Now suddenly diverging from the orb 
Retired behind the mountain tops or veiled 
By the dense air — shot upwards to the 

crown 
Of the blue firmament— aloft, and wide : 
And multitudes of little floating clouds, 
Through their ethereal texture pierced — ere 

we, 
Who saw, of change were conscious — had 

become 
Vivid as fire ; clouds separately poised, — 
Innumerable multitude of forms 
Scattered through half the circle of the sky ; 
And giving back, and shedding each on 

each, 
With prodigal communion, the bright hues 
Which from the imapparent fount of glory 
They had imbibed, and ceased not to re- 
ceive. 
That which the heavens displayed, the liquid 

deep 
Repeated ;' but with unity sublime ! 

While from the grassy mountain's open 
side 
We gazed, in silence hushed, with eyes in- 
tent 



THh EXCURSION. 



70.S 



On the refulgent spectacle, diffused 
Through earth, sky, water, and all visible 

space. 
The Priest in holy transport thus exclaimed : 

" Eternal Spirit ! universal God ! 
Power inaccessible to human tliought, 
Save by degrees and steps which thou hast 

deigned 
To furnish ; for this effluence of thyself, 
To the infirmity of mortal sense 
Vouchsafed ; this local transitory type 
Of thy paternal splendors, and the pomp 
Of those who fill thy courts in highest hea- 
ven, 
The radiant Cherubim ;— accept the thanks 
Which we, thy humble Creatures, here :on- 

vened. 
Presume to offer; we, who- from the 

breast 
Of the frail earth, permitted to behold 
The faint reflections only of thy face — 
Are yet exalted, and in soul adore ! 
Such as they are who in thy presence stand 
Unsullied, incorruptible, and drink 
Imperishable majesty streamed forth 
From tliy empyreal throne, the eleot of 

earth 
Shall be — divested at the appointed hour 
Of all dishonor, cleansed from mortal stain. 
— Accomplish, then, their number; and 

conclude 
Time's weary course ! Or if, by thy decree. 
The consummation that will come by stealth 
Be yet far distant, let thy Word prevail. 
Oh ! let thy Word prevail, to take away 
The sting of human nature. Spread the 

law, 
As it is written in thy holy book. 
Throughout all lands : let every nation hear 
The high behest, and every heart obey ; 
Both for the love of purity, and liope 
Which it affords, to such as do thy will 
And persevere in good, tliat they shall rise. 
To have a nearer view of thee, in heaven. 
—Father of good ! this prayer in bounty 

grant, 
In mercy grant it, to thy wretched sons. 
Then, nor till then, shaJl persecution cease, 
And cruel wars expire. The way is marked, 
The guide appointed, and the ransom paid. 
Alas ! the nations, who of yore received 
These tidings, and in Christian temples 

meet 
The sacred truth to acknowledjre, lincrer 

still; 
Preferring bonds and darkness to a state 



Of holy freedom, by redeeming love 
Proffered to all, while yet on earth detained 

So fare the many ; and the thoughtful 

few, 
Who in the anguish of their souls bewail 
This dire perverseness, cannot choose but 

ask, 
Shall it endure?— Shall enmity and strife, _ 
Falsehood and guile, be left to sow their 

seed ; 
And the kind never perish ? Is the hope 
Fallacious, or shall righteousness obtain 
A peaceable dominion, wide as earth. 
And ne'er to fail ? Shall that blest day ar- 
rive 
When they, whose choice or lot it is to dwell 
In crowded cities, without fear shall live 
Studious of muiual benefit , and he. 
Whom Morn awakens, among dews and 

flowers 
Of every clime, to till the lonely field. 
Be happy in himself ? — The law of faith 
Working through love, such conquest shall 

it gain. 
Such triumph over sin and guilt achieve? 
Almighty Lord, thy further grace impart 1 
And "with that help the wonder shall be 

seen 
Fulfilled, the hope accomplished,- and thy 

praise 
Be sung with transport and unceasing joy. 

Once," and with mild demeanor, as he 

spake, 
On us the venerable Pastor turned 
His beaming eye that had been raised to 

Heaven, 
" Once, while the name, Jehovah, was 2 

sound 
Within the circuit of this sea-girt isle 
Unheard, the savage nations bowed the 

head 
To Gods delighting in remorseless deeds ; 
Gods which themselves had fashioned, to 

promote 
111 purposes, and flatter foul desires. 
Tlien, in the bosom of yon mounlain cove, 
To those inventions of corrupted man 
Mysterious rites were solemnized ; and 

tliere — 
Amid impending rocks and gloomy woods — • 
Of those teriffic Idols some received 
Such dismal service, that the loudest voice 
Of the swoln cataracts (which now ar« 

heard 
Soft murmurine^ was too weak to ovw 

come, 



7o6 



THE excursion: 



Though aided by wild winds, the groans 

and shrieks 
Of human victims, offered up to appease 
Or to propitiate. And, if hving eyes 
Had visionary faculties to see 
The thing that hath been as the tiling that is. 
Aghast we might behold this crystal Mere 
Bedimmed with smoke, in wreaths volumin- 
ous, 
Flung from the body of devouring fires, 
To Taranis erected on the heights 
By priestly hands, for sacrifice performed 
ExuUingly, in view of open day 
And full assemblage of a barbarous host ; 
Or to Andates, female Power, who gave 
(For so they fancied) glorious victory. 
— A few rude monuments of mountain- 
stone 
Survive ; all else is swept away. — How 

bright 
The appearances of things! From such, 

how changed 
The existing worship ; and with those com- 
pared. 
The worshippers how innocent and blest! 
So wide the difference, a willing mind 
Miglit almost think, at this affecting hour, 
That paradise, the lost abode of man, 
Was raised again : and to a happy few, 
In its original beauty, here restored. 

Whence but from thee, the true and only 
God, 
And from the faith derived through Him 

who bled 
Upon the cross, this marvellous advance 
Of good from evil ? as if one extreme 
Were left, the other gained. — O ye, who 

come > 
To kneel devoutly in yon reverend Pile, 
Called to such office by the peaceful sound 
Of sabbath-bells ; and ye, who sleep in earth, 
All cares forgotten, round its hallowed 

walls! 
For you, in presence of this little band 
Gathered together on tlie green liill-side. 
Your Pastor is emboldened to prefer 
Vocal thanksgivings to the eternal King ; 
Whose love, whose counsel, whose com- 
mands, liave made 
Your very poorest rich in peace of thought 
And in good works : and him, who is en- 
dowed 
With scantiest knowledge, master of all 

truth 
Which the salvation of his soul requires. 
Conscious of that abundant favor showered 



On you, the children of my humble care, \ 
And this dear land, our country, while ^^■ 

earth 
We sojourn, have I lifted up my soul, 
Joy giving voice to fervent gratitude. 
These barren rocks, your stern inheritance . 
Tliese fertile fields, that recompense yoiu 

pains ; 
The shadowy vale, the sunny mountain- 
top ; 
Woods waving in the wind their lofty heads, 
Or hushed ; the roaring waters, and the 

still— 
Tiiey see the offering of my lifted hands, 
They hear my lips present their sacrifice. 
They know if I be silent, morn or even : 
For, though in whispers speaking, the full 
heart [liim 

Will find a vent ; and thought is praise tc 
Audible praise, to thee, omniscient Mind, 
From whom all gifts descend, all blessings 
flow ! " 

This vesper-service closed, without delay, 
From tliat exalted station to the plain 
Descending, we pursued our homeward 

course, 
In mute composure, o'er the shadowy lake, 
Under a faded sky. No trace remained 
Of tliose celestial splendors ; gray the 

vault — ' 
Pure, cloudless, ether ; and the star of eve 
Was wanting ; but inferior lights appeared 
Faintly, too faint almost for siglit ; and 

some 
Above the darkened liills stood boldly forth 
In twinkling lustre, ere the boat attained 
Her mooring-place ; where, to the shelter 

ing tree 
Our youthful Voyagers bound fast her prow, 
With prompt yet careful hands. This 

done, we paced 
The dewy fields ; but ere the Vicar's door 
Was reached, the Solitary cliecked his steps , 
Then, intermingling thanks, on each be- 
stowed 
A farewell salutation ; and, the like 
Receiving, took the slender patli tliat leads 
'J"o the one cottage in tlie lonely dell : 
But turned not Without welcome promise 

made 
That he would share the pleasures and pur- 
suits 
Of yet another summer's day, not loth 
To wander with us through the fertile vales, 
And o'er the mountain-wastes. "Another 
sun," 



TTTE excursion: 



707 



aid he, " shall shine upon us, ere we part ; 
Another sun, and peradventure more ; 
!,f time, with free consent, be yours to give, 
nd season favors." 

To enfeebled Power, 
Jjrom this communion with uninjured 

Minds, 
What renovation had been brought ; and 

wliat 
Degree of healing to a wounded spirit, 
Dejected, and habitually disposed 



To seek, in degradation of the Kind, 
Excuse and solace for her own defects ; 
Hew far those erring notions were reformed ; 
And whether aught, of tendency as good 
And pure, from further intercourse en- 
sued ; 
This — if delightful hopes, as heretofore. 
Inspire the serious song, and gentle Hearts 
Cherish, and lofty Minds approve the 

past — 
My future labors may not leave untold, 



I 



i ^'v 



Deacidified us.ng the Bookkeeper process. 

/ -4 1347 -SSCS?'" 

"^^ 111 Thomson park Dnve 

Cranberry Township. PA 16066 



n 



